The Hetalian Class
by Rainy Meadows
Summary: Nine months after the Atlantis incident, everyone who was scarred has tried their best to move on, but following a violent schism between two previously peaceful brothers, a stunning revelation could bring the chances of survival for all of them into question. Pairings/dark themes. Third in the SoulHeta series - please read previous entries if you want to understand.
1. Everything Changes

**WARNING: Whatever you thought this story was going to be, there's a very good chance that you were horribly wrong. Don't blame me if you end up upset, as i know for a fact that there are stories out there with far worse content than this one.**

**You have been warned.**

* * *

"_The 21__st__ century is when everything changes… and you gotta be ready."- Capt. Jack Harkness_

* * *

It was half past five in the morning, but Italy Veneziano had yet to sleep.

He curled up and pulled his blanket tight around his body, trying to ignore the duct tape still clinging to his wrists and the aching in his hips. There were still tears pouring relentlessly down his cheeks and cold sweat was dripping off his forehead.

And, perhaps worst of all, his brother was sleeping peacefully right next to him and making the whole room stink of alcohol.

Italy was scared. Terrified. He knew that sooner or later, Romano would wake up, and he was afraid that when that happened, the nightmare would begin all over again. That he would be pressed down upon his bed, unable to move or even breathe properly as his hands were bound above his head and…

He had to get out. There was no doubt about it. He had to leave this house and escape. But what then? What would happen to Romano? There was plenty of alcohol in the house, so what if he drank it all and hurt himself?

His whole body trembling, he sat up and got out of bed. A quick glance at his bedside table reminded him that he'd left his mobile phone downstairs in the kitchen. Damn. He pulled on his boxers – which proved difficult as his hands were still tied with strong silver tape – and left the room and descended the stairs as quietly as he could. He couldn't make any noise. Nothing that could threaten him with the awakening of the slumbering monster.

Before Italy picked up his phone, he pulled a pair of scissors out of a drawer (taking the utmost care to avoid clattering) and, with some difficulty, cut the tape away from his wrists. He sighed with relief as he rubbed the raw skin, wincing a little as it was bitten by the cold air of the early morning.

Then he grabbed his phone and called the first number that came to mind.

'Pick it up,' he prayed, 'please, please, _please_ pick it up…'

He shivered. He should have put on a shirt.

"_Ja_, what is it, Italy?"

Italy was unable to avoid a sigh of relief, then covered his mouth with a thrill of horror in fear that Romano might have heard him.

"Italy, why are you calling me at half past five in the morning?" asked Germany.

Still afraid, Italy crouched down under the table.

"Germany," he whispered, "Germany, help me, please help me…"

"Why?" asked Germany. "Italy, what is wrong?"

"Ssh! Please be quiet, Germany, you'll wake him up!"

"Who?" He heard the other man sit up. "Italy, who or what are you talking about? What has happened, are you alright?"

He shook his head.

"No," he moaned quietly, "no, I-I'm not alright."

He covered his face, trying and failing to stem the fresh flow of tears as they gushed down like rivers onto the floor.

"Italy, I'm beginning to grow annoyed," said Germany. "Will you please tell me _what is going on?!_"

His attempts to shush the other man descended into sobs of anguish as the memories of last night began to pour into his mind and flashed in front of his eyes. Images of his brother breaking down the front door, staggering over to him and wrapping his fingers around his neck, dragging him towards the stairs and-

"Italy… Italy, tell me what's wrong."

The smaller man sniffed and wiped his face on his hand.

"It's Romano," he explained, keeping the volume of his voice to a bare minimum. "He went out with Spain last night, but he came back earlier than I thought he would and he was really… h-he could hardly stand up, and when he came in I tried to get him to calm down, but he grabbed me by the neck and… a-and he pulled me upstairs and he… he…"

He couldn't bring himself to say. He didn't want to believe that his brother, his _fratello_ whom he had looked up to for so much of his life had…

"He what?"

No. It wasn't possible. And yet it had happened, and so quickly-

"Italy, what did he do to you?"

He crouched down further and looked around. For a moment he thought he had heard something moving upstairs, and froze in terror. It seemed like forever before he was able to move again.

"I can't tell you," he whispered. "That's what he said, he said I couldn't tell anybody and he'd kill me if I did, but he also said that even if I did tell someone, they wouldn't ever want to be near me again because I'm dirty and disgusting and nobody wants me anymore and-"

"I'm coming over."

He froze again.

"Wha?" he said.

"Italy, stay where you are," Germany commanded. "I'm going to come to get you, alright? Don't try to leave your home in case Romano sees you and tries something else. Trust me when I say you're going to be alright. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

"_S-si_, I got it. Thank you, Germany."

"It's nothing. Just wait for me, okay?"

"Okay."

He ended the call and got out from under the table-

"_Buongiorno_, Veneziano."

No.

Please, no.

As slowly as though his body was turning into stone, Italy lowered the phone and turned to face his elder brother, who was leaning casually against the door frame and glaring at him so dangerously that the younger man feared he would be stabbed by his eyes.

"_C-ciao_, _f-fra-fratello_," Italy stammered. "D-did you sleep well?"

Rather than answering, Romano leaned to one side to examine the contents of his little brother's hands.

"What's that?" he asked.

Italy tried to hide his phone behind his back, but Romano was too quick for him and dived across the table, grabbed his arm and wrenched the mobile out of his hand, revealing the offending message:

_Call ended with:_

_**GERMANY**_

"YOU _TOLD HIM?!_"

"N-No, I-I swear-"

"What the hell is WRONG WITH YOU, Veneziano?" Romano seized his little brother by the hair and held his face inches away from his own. "I told you not to tell anybody. This was supposed to be our secret, it was supposed to stay in the dark! It was never supposed to be spoken of again!"

"P-please-"

"Did he believe you? DID HE BELIEVE YOU?"

Italy didn't know how to reply. From the tone of his voice, it kinda sounded like Germany had believed him, and if he said that he was coming over, that counted for something, right? Right?

"I-I d- I dunno," he stammered, his terror preventing him from forming coherent sentences. "He-He said he was g-gonna come over and-"

"_SHUT UP!_"

He threw his little brother down and stepped away, biting his nails in nervous thought.

"Please," Italy whimpered. "Please, _fratello_, I-I don't blame you, you were really drunk, so I-I'm not angry at you, I swear it… please, I- Romano, you're really scaring me, try to calm down-"

"I'm not even gonna tell you to _shut up_."

Italy fell silent and tried to hide himself, but all there was to hide behind was the table and its legs. He watched as his elder brother paced back and forth, trying and quite clearly struggling to wrap his head around what was happening, breathing heavily and gnawing on his fingernails, occasionally brushing his fingers through his hair. He looked down and examined Italy carefully: the tears pouring down his cheeks, his eyes wide in desperate pleading, his almost naked body trembling in fear, the bruises on his hips where Romano's tight fingers had gripped his slim body…

"We gotta cover this up," he decided. "I-If the potato bastard comes, you just tell him it was a bad dream or something, you have plenty of those. Put some clothes on and cover up those bruises so you-"

"No, no I-I can't," said Italy, trying and failing to sound defiant. "I- Romano, I already told Germany what you did and-"

The death glare thrown his way was the cue for him to be quiet.

"Very well," Romano sighed. "I wish I saw a way other than this."

He grabbed his little brother by the hair and tugged him to his feet, and Italy tried everything he could to avoid crying out in horror as Romano seized a knife from a kitchen drawer and dragged him towards the entrance to the basement.

"Please," Italy moaned wretchedly. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please. Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, Romano, please don't hurt me, I-"

Romano wrenched the door open and pressed Italy's wrists against the top of the empty frame, pinning him with only one hand and tightly gripping the knife in the other. The more the younger man looked at the sharp blade, the more his body stiffened and quivered.

The elder man leaned forward and whispered three short words into his petrified brother's ear:

"_Ti voglio bene_."

He thrust the knife forward and plunged the length of the blade into the smaller man's unclothed stomach.

Italy's eyes widened in more shock and horror than they had ever borne before, silently screaming for solace. He gasped in a futile attempt to keep breathing, and unable to bear his face any longer, Romano released him and allowed him to crash down the stairs and into the basement.

He didn't move at all once he finally reached the floor.

Romano threw the blood-soaked knife into the sink, snatched the phone from where it had been left on the table and calmly walked down the stairs to where Italy was lying, blood staining his formerly yellow boxers a deep crimson.

"Why couldn't you be this helpless all the time?" he asked. "It would've made our lives so much easier."

He knelt down and placed the phone next to his brother's face, trying to ignore how his eyelids flickered as he tried to remain conscious.

"_Mi dispiace_," he muttered. "_Ti prego di perdonarmi, fratello_."

_I'm sorry. Please forgive me, brother._

He about turned and disappeared up the stairs and through the door, leaving his only blood relative in near total darkness.

The only light came from the phone. As his strength drained bit-by-bit from his body, Italy reached up, somehow located the contact list and scrolled down. The moment he saw the word _**Germany**_, his finger hit the screen and he waited for the person at the other end to pick up.

After what felt like a lifetime, they did.

"_Bonjour?_ Who is calling, please?"

Oh no. He must have hit the wrong one. It wasn't Germany on the other end of the line. But he pulled it over to his ear all the same.

"Hello? Is there anyone there?"

He had to speak. He had to ask for help.

"Big…" Italy gasped. "Big brother… France…"

"Italy? Is that you, _mon cher?_"

"Please… help me… I… don't want to… die alone…"

"You what? What do you mean by 'die alone', what is the matter? Are you sick or wounded, what is wrong?"

It felt like fire. Like a red hot poker had been thrust into his body and was burning him from the inside out. It made him want to scream and cry his eyes out in sheer agony. At least he probably wouldn't have to experience it for very much longer.

"Tell…" he choked, "please… Francey… tell Germany… I…"

"What? Tell him what? A-are you in your home? Hold on, _mon ami_, I will be by your side presently."

The call ended.

"No," Italy whispered, unable to bear the horrific thought of being on his own when he was about to die, "_please_…"

He couldn't hold on any more.

His eyelids slid closed.

* * *

"_ITALY!_"

It was obvious, just by looking at him, that Germany had rushed in his journey to the Italy brothers' house. His shirt was hanging open, he was clutching at his trousers which were in danger of falling down due to lack of belt and his hair was only half groomed and several loose strands dangled over his forehead. His eyes, however, were burning with intense fury.

"Italy?!" he shouted. "Where are you? Italy? Romano, are you here?"

Something caught his eye. Something red.

It was blood. On the floor. Small splatters of it spanning the entire width of the hallway floor.

And sounds of splashing water in the kitchen.

He kicked the door right off its hinges.

Romano was standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wrist deep in soapy water. Soapy water which carried with it a brownish-red tint. He jumped when Germany entered, but his shock quickly became anger.

"Potato bastard?" he snarled. "The hell are you doing here?"

Germany caught his breath.

"I received a rather alarming phone call from Italy earlier," he explained. "He claimed that you returned home drunk last night and… _assaulted_ him. Where is he? What have you done with him?"

"So that _idiota_ had a nightmare," Romano said matter-of-factly. "What's it to you? He's probably still upstairs asleep if he hasn't run off in search of you."

"DO NOT LIE TO ME!" Germany shouted, more enraged than he had ever been in his whole life as he grabbed the smaller man's collar. "I saw the blood spatter on the hallway floor. Where is your little brother? What did you do to him?_ WHAT DID YOU DO?!_"

Romano brought the knife out from where it had been hidden in the bloodied soapy water and tried to slice open the larger man's stomach, but Germany jumped backwards and avoided his swing. So the by-now-terrified Italian lifted the blade and charged forwards, hoping to plunge it deep into his attacker's heart-

-and the blade snapped into two.

Germany barely reacted, but Romano stared in horror at the fractured metal in his hand, then turned his gaze to the larger man's hand – or rather, where his hand should have been. It was…

From the elbow downwards, his arm and the sleeve that clothed it became a weapon.

"You- you're a-" Romano stammered.

"Yes!"

In less than a second, Germany had the smaller man pressed down on the table and was holding the needle-like point of his blade to his throat.

"Where is your little brother?!" he demanded. "Tell me where he is! Tell me what you have done with him! TELL ME!"

Romano spat on his face.

Rage consuming his body and mind, Germany pulled back his arm – the blade transforming back into a hand in a flash of deep orange light – and punched Romano in the face with as much strength as he could muster.

"_WHERE IS HE?!_" he screamed.

"_Vaffanculo_, bastard."

Another solid punch, and Romano smiled darkly up at Germany with teeth that were coated in blood.

"Where is he? Where IS he? WHERE IS HE? **WHERE IS HE?! **_**WHERE IS HE?!**_"

No matter how much Germany shouted or slammed his fist into the other man's face, Romano remained silent and smiling. He didn't even care when one of his teeth fell out or when his nose began to pour out blood, and Germany just kept punching and screaming-

"_Allemagne_, stop!"

-until his hand was pulled away and his body was dragged backwards, but he wasn't broken out of his fury-induced stupor until he heard the clatter of a crutch hitting the floor, which brought his attention to the newcomer who was now sprawled on the floor.

"I would understand perfectly if you were angry with him," he said, "but if you continue beating him like that, you are going to kill him!"

His body still buzzing with adrenaline, Germany looked from the newcomer to Romano, who was now bearing all the classic signs of a human punching bag. Both of his eyes were blackened, his nose was bent out of shape and he was now missing two teeth, and blood was trickling out of both nostrils and the corner of his mouth. Despite this, he still managed to give the Aryan a hate-filled glare which was hotter than a laser. It didn't bother the larger man because it was no different to all of the other hate filled glares he'd been on the receiving end of.

"My apologies," he said, voice still tinted with anger. "I may have gotten carried away." He helped France to his feet, asking "Why are you here?"

"I received a rather unsettling call from Italy not too long ago," the long-haired nation explained as he put his crutch back on. "He sounded as though he was close to expiring and did not say anything other than that he did not want to die alone."

Germany almost leapt back in shock. He glanced at Romano, who was still glaring at him angrily, and for a second he looked as though he was about to start beating him again. Luckily he opted instead to rub his face, breathing heavily as though he were about to start crying, and started to pace back and forth.

It was France's turn to grab the battered Italian by the collar and pull him up until their faces were inches apart.

"Are you going to tell the two of us what you have done to your younger brother?" he snarled. "Or am I going to have to take over where _Allemagne_ has left off?"

Romano spat scarlet saliva in his face.

"_Vaffanculo_ to you as well," he snapped. "You know it's no good. He's probably dead by now."

Germany raised his shaking fist, preparing another punch, but summoned the willpower to repress his rage.

"I left his phone with him so he could call someone," said Romano. "So that he could talk to someone before the end. I'm not a monster: I would never want my little brother to die alone."

"That's no excuse!" cried Germany.

"Where is he, Romano?" France demanded.

Romano looked from one fuming face to another, trying to figure out what he should do. Outnumbered and outgunned, he realised he had no other option.

He sighed.

"Fine," he muttered. "Check the basement."

"I hope you burn in hell," Germany growled.

He stormed out of the room and Romano made as if to follow him, but the vicelike grip of an incensed Frenchman prevented him from moving a single inch. This was annoying: France was impossible to glare at effectively because it seemed as though to him, 'angry' and 'aroused' were one and the same.

Germany wrenched the basement door open.

"Oh… _mein Gott_…" he whispered, staring at the crumpled body which lay in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs.

He dived down.

"_ITALY!_" he screamed, catching the attention of Romano and France.

With his crutch in one hand and the Italian's collar in the other, France staggered back out into the hallway so that he could see into the basement. He saw Germany, facing away and kneeling on the floor, clutching a limp figure which bore a head of reddish-brown hair and was more than half-covered in blood.

"France!" cried Germany. "France, call an ambulance! He's still alive! Call for help! Anything! HURRY!"

France began to obey, but paused and looked Romano dead in the eye, face filling with horror.

"Romano," he choked, "what have you _done?!_"

* * *

**Yes. I know Romano would never ever EVER do anything like this, but I hope you realise that's the point. He's not my favourite Hetalia character and I know he doesn't like Veneziano that much, but even he wouldn't go so far as to **_**rape**_** his little brother. OOC is serious business, guys: it should be avoided at all costs unless it is deliberately invoked for purposes of storytelling. Those who have read The Hetalian Job (Chapters 12-16 in particular) will understand.**

**I don't think I have to state that this is only the beginning. Also, this story is probably going to invoke some of the more recent elements of Soul Eater - from the manga, that is, which I know finished not too long ago (mixed feelings about that ending: I think Okubo just wanted an excuse to shove boobs in our faces) - so be warned. The darkness in this story will probably be far more consistent than it was in Job.**

**Let's face it, Soul Eater has done far worse than this, even if you have to read between the lines to pick up some of it, but still...**

**I want you all to know that this was incredibly hard to write.**

**Am I a monster?**

**Please review.**


	2. Return of the Big Brother

"Do you have a patient in this building named Feliciano Vargas?"

The doctor looked up at the intruder with a face which bore very little concern, in stark contrast to this newcomer who quite frankly looked both furious and terrified at the same time.

He turned on his computer and searched the hospital database.

"Yes, we do," he said. "Admitted eight days ago with injuries concurrent with-"

"I don't want you to skip over anything or try to put it in layman's terms," said the intruder, sitting in the chair on the other side of the doctor's desk. "I want. To know. Everything."

This was new. His authority had never been challenged like this before.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "but I'm afraid-"

"Forget your Hippocratic oath and rules of patient confidentiality," said the intruder, slapping down an ID card on the desk. "Just for the moment. I need to know what happened to him. _Please_."

The doctor examined the identification critically. It was not only genuine, but of such high authority that he could never hope to decline. He only hoped that nobody was watching who could report him.

"Very well," he said with a sigh, and pulled up the report on _Vargas, F._

"At 8:16am on the day of April 4th, Feliciano Vargas (aged 20 yrs., 172cm) was admitted to this hospital," he read. "He arrived via ambulance under the escort of two males of a similar age claiming to be friends of the patient, who were in turn accompanying a fourth man who had suffered severe contusions to the cranium and several facial fractures, including a greenstick fracture to the mandible and the loss of an incisor and a premolar which proved unable to replace. This man, insisting that he was the elder brother of the patient, was treated for the aforementioned wounds and due to the statements given by the accompanying parties is now in hospital custody until such a time that he is healthy enough to be turned over to the police."

He glanced up at the intruder.

"I see," he said. "Please continue."

The doctor nodded and looked back at his computer screen.

"Mr Vargas was admitted to the ER and immediately underwent emergency surgery," he continued. "He bore a wound to the abdomen 13.4cm deep, concurrent with reports that he had been stabbed with a kitchen knife, which had fortunately avoided most of his vital internal organs. He had lost over 2 litres of blood and was in danger of cardiac arrest, requiring 3 transfusions before he stabilised. He had also suffered multiple fractured ribs, a greenstick fracture to the sternum, cranium, two vertebrae and the left humerus and simple fractures to both radii and the right tibia and fibula. This is all concurrent with reports that he was thrown down a set of stairs and landed on a solid concrete surface. He had also suffered severe sexual trauma, received several hours prior to the aforementioned injuries and evidenced by -"

"That's all I needed to know," said the intruder, and he stood up and picked up his ID card. "Can you tell me which ward he is in?"

"He isn't," said the doctor. "He's been placed in the ICU and has been in a coma since the day he was admitted, but it's nothing short of a miracle that he's even alive. It disturbs me to inform you that our DNA tests have proven that the one responsible for the sexual trauma was the man who was claiming to be Mr Vargas' 'fratello'."

The intruder paused, disgust flashing across his features.

"He claims to have been deeply intoxicated at the time."

And his expression changed from disgust to blankness, which the doctor suspected was a mask for his fury.

"Thank you for the information," he said.

"As far as I'm concerned, this conversation never took place," said the doctor.

The intruder made for the door.

"Just one question," said the doctor just before he left. "Why did you request this information in the first place? Are you a close friend or related to Mr Vargas in any way?"

The intruder looked back at him, his two-toned golden eyes glinting with pride.

"Of course," he said. "I'm his big brother."

* * *

"Wait, I-I think he's waking up!"

Pain was no stranger to Italy, but he had never experienced it in his entire body before. It was in his arms, his leg, his head, his chest, his back and most prominently in his stomach. If this was the afterlife then he'd been screwed over like never before.

Funny. Apparently the afterlife smelled of hospital disinfectant.

As consciousness trickled back into his mind, he became aware of many other strange sensations along with the pain and smell of antiseptic. There was the sound of beeping – a rhythmic _beep, beep, beep_ which kept in tune with his heartbeat – and a rather uncomfortable feeling in his nose as though a tube had been inserted into it and led right down his windpipe.

And there was light. Bright light. It burned his eyes unpleasantly.

The only pleasant thing was the warmth in his left hand. It felt as though somebody was holding it gently and rubbing over his fingers with their thumb, perhaps an attempt at comfort.

Slowly, afraid of what he might see, he opened his eyes and blinked the world into focus.

The first thing he saw was white. A white ceiling. A white light over his head. White venetian blinds in the window before him, through which several silhouettes were visible, and he could feel their gaze upon him. Then he noticed the walls, which were also white, but carried with them a slight blue tint. There were two bags hanging on a rod of metal over his head: one filled with a clear liquid, the other containing a maroon substance which was quite plainly blood. Both were connected to tubes which ran down and into his arm, which was wrapped liberally in bandages. He couldn't see the bandages or the tubes where they connected with his arm, but he could feel them. They were uncomfortable. And that beeping was beginning to get on his nerves.

He saw fingers reach up and brush his hair aside, and followed the arm with his eyes until he saw their owner.

"_Bonjour_, Italy," said France in a soft voice.

"Hello, old chap," said England, who was seated next to him. "Nice to see you're awake. I must say, you gave us all quite a fright."

"All of us were so worried," France added. "We were afraid you were never going to awaken! Do you feel alright?"

Italy moistened his lips. They were dry as a bone.

"Why are you guys here?" he muttered hoarsely. His chest hurt too much for him to breathe enough to speak any louder.

"Italy, your call gave me the fright of my life," France confessed. "The mere thought of you dying is something I could never conceive of, let alone being on your own, and you sounded like you were in so much pain and fear!"

He wanted to nod. But he couldn't. It was too painful to lift his head.

"As for me," said England, "I'm only here because Frogface here blackmailed me into coming along with several others _who I wish would stop spying on us!_"

At his yell, the silhouettes quickly disappeared from the observation window.

"Romano," Italy whispered, "is he-"

"He's here in police custody," England told him. "Germany gave him quite a thorough beating once he found out what he had done to you. Don't worry; he's going to pay dearly for what happened."

"Please don't be too hard on him," said Italy. "He was drunk, he didn't-"

"THAT'S _NO_ EXCUSE!" France shouted as he leapt to his feet, but he heavily collapsed into his chair just as quickly as he was still unable to sustain his weight on his right leg.

"Fool," England muttered under his breath.

"It's no excuse," the other man repeated. "Love should never be forced on anybody! And that kind of love… and on his _little brother_ no less… I am truly sorry that I could not have reached you sooner."

"You idiot," England chided him, "you didn't know what was going on until he was already in this sorry state!" To Italy he added "No offence."

"_Nngh-_ none taken," Italy groaned weakly, trying and failing to ignore the pain. "Di-did you mention Germany?"

"_Oui_, he's just there," said France, pointing at the opposite side of the room.

Italy leaned as far to the right as he could without putting himself in even more agony than he was already experiencing. There he saw Germany, half slumped, half curled up on a chair with his eyes softly closed and a long deep blue coat draped over his shoulders like a blanket. Dark circles around his eyes indicated that this may have been the first time he had slept in several days, and they were also swollen and red as though he had been crying.

"The stupid kraut's barely moved since you came in," England explained. "He's refused to eat and this is the first time he's slept in over a week. I daresay he'll be relieved to see that you're finally back in the land of the living."

As Italy watched, Germany shuffled slightly and rested his head on his hand, heaving a sigh through his nostrils. Italy found himself wondering if he had bought a blue coat specifically for him to see: it was his favourite colour, after all. And he wouldn't put it past Germany to do something like that. He looked back over at France and England.

"I'm glad you guys are here," he told them as he tried to smile. "Ve~ I really don't want to be alone right now."

"Excuse me?"

The trio all turned to a nurse who was standing in the doorway.

"I'm very sorry," she said, "but I'm afraid the patient needs his rest, so I'll have to ask you to leave now."

"Well, there goes that plan," said England as he and France got up (France remembered his crutch this time) and made for the door. The nurse had apparently not noticed Germany or had grown used to his presence.

"_Mademoiselle,_" France said to her, "if you should desire a little company later tonight-"

She pushed him in the back and left, closing the door behind her.

Italy stared at the ceiling.

He wanted to sleep. He really wanted to be able to close his eyes and be able to drift off into dreamland, but he was incredibly frightened. Would he ever be able to sleep again without remembering that horrible night when he had been unable to breathe properly or move without his elder brother slapping him in the face and shouting at him to keep still?

And he had screamed. He had screamed the house down. Romano had stuffed a balled-up pair of socks into his mouth in an attempt to keep him quiet, but all that had done was muffle his howls of terror and agony. He had silently prayed for somebody – _anybody_ – to come to his rescue, but it was useless. He was useless.

Hadn't he promised himself that he would become stronger?

He blinked, wondering if it would be a serviceable replacement for sleep, and several tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped into his pillow.

"It's okay, Italy."

He almost choked. Hadn't he been asleep?

Presumably sensing that he was unable to move, Germany entered his field of vision. His sapphire eyes were filled with more sympathy and guilt than there should have existed in the world.

"Germany," Italy choked, "I'm so glad you're here."

"Of course I am," Germany replied. "You should know by now that I would never leave you if you were injured or in danger."

Italy tried to smile, but a sob wracked his body with pain and only made the tears flow faster.

"I'm sorry that I could not reach you sooner," said Germany.

He reached back and took the blue coat from where he had left it on the chair he had occupied, then draped it over Italy's upper body for extra warmth and comfort.

"You're so kind," Italy sighed. "_Grazie_."

"It's nothing," said Germany, and he fell to his knees. "I only wish I could have prevented you from being hurt in the first place."

Italy closed his eyes, wishing that the larger man's presence could take the pain away.

"Germany," he moaned quietly, "it hurts."

"What hurts?" asked Germany. "Italy, where is your pain?"

"Everywhere," said Italy. "My arms… my leg… my back… my chest… my head… it all hurts and the morphine doesn't do anything."

He tried to look at Germany.

"Hold me," he muttered. "Hold me, Germany."

The blonde hair and blue eyes came back into his field of vision.

"I can't," he said. "Not without causing you pain. I'm so sorry."

Cradling Italy's face in one hand, he leaned down and kissed him softly on the nose.

"It's okay to cry," he whispered. "I'm not going to leave you. I'm never going to leave your side."

He was safe. He was alive. Nothing could ever hurt him when Germany was with him.

Italy wept.

* * *

It was now half-past one in the morning and the hospital was almost completely dark, but not so dark that Germany couldn't see where he was going. So after making sure that Italy was safely and peacefully asleep, he left him alone and decided to secretly take advantage of the showers in the staff locker rooms.

The hot water was refreshing and calming and warmed his entire body to the core. It felt good to be able to shower without the scars on his back causing his torso to seize up or his elder brother stealing his clothes and towels.

He wondered if Italy had ever experienced the same thing, but with his arm. The wounds were almost the same, after all. Just smaller.

It had been like something out of a nightmare. He didn't know what he had expected when he opened that door, but it was all he could do to keep breathing when he saw the man he loved lying unmoving in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs. In that moment, he felt as though his world had come to an end. And when he got down there, cradled that broken body, felt a weak and erratic pulse…

He had needed a fresh shirt. The one he wore on that horrible morning had gained a large bloodstain on the front. He'd burned it the very moment he got the chance.

What he wanted, more than anything, was to put Romano through a hell equal to that Italy had suffered. From what he could gather, Romano was the one who emerged the least damaged from the Atlantis incident. He had been locked in a cell on his own and left to starve or freeze (neither of which were likely to happen) whereas Japan had his face sliced open and appeared to now have gained claustrophobia, France was rendered unable to walk without assistance, England was used as a human autograph book, China's experiences left him with an acute fear of darkness and Russia and America seemed to have developed inferiority complexes.

Germany had been played with. Lied to. Manipulated. Made to believe that he was going to be murdered and that Italy had died in a terrible fashion.

To think: that had almost happened a little over a week ago.

After pulling on a fresh set of clothes, he left the locker rooms while rubbing his hair with a towel and started to make his way back to the ICU.

When he got to Italy's room, he froze.

Then he carefully peered through blinds over the observation window.

There were people in there. Two of them. He could hear their voices, quiet but audible, and they sounded like either teenagers or young adults. A young man and a young woman. The girl – who bore pink hair and dark green eyes – was kneeling next to Italy's bed, examining him critically, while the boy – who had dark hair and a long white jacket – stood over her and watched. He was mostly turned away and any features that may have been visible were obscured by the blinds.

Hoping he wouldn't be seen, Germany carefully parted the blinds with a pair of fingers.

"This is bad," said the girl. "With injuries like this, it's amazing that he's not long dead. I hope you're gonna pay me well for this."

"Don't worry," the boy replied, "I have more than enough to tide you over."

Wait a minute. Only one person had that voice.

_Kid?!_

Germany looked closer. It could be expected that he hadn't noticed at first: the three white stripes which defined the young reaper were on the left side of his head, therefore facing away. Now that he checked again, those two-toned golden eyes were unmistakable.

"Can you fix him?" he asked.

"Where would you start?!" the girl demanded, moodily but quietly. "I mean, look at him! There's his head, his arms, his leg, his back, his ribs, his… I don't know if I have enough power for this!"

"You'll be fine," Kid said calmly. "You're a witch, aren't you?"

Germany did a double-take. That young girl was a witch? But she was so _young_ and…

"I want him to be able to walk out of here tomorrow morning," said Kid in a half-commanding, half-pleading tone. "I know that this may feel like I'm taking advantage of your abilities, but-"

"It's fine," said the girl. "I'll do what I can. I'm pretty sure Ox would do the same for me."

"Thank you, Kim," said Kid, and he sat down in the chair that Germany had been using, rubbing his forehead in exasperation.

The girl, whose name was apparently Kim, gently placed her hands on Italy's body and muttered a series of odd words in some indiscernible dialect. Whatever she said, it caused her hands to glow, and she ran them up and down the sleeping man's blanketed form. Germany considered rushing in there and stopping whatever was going on, but it didn't appear to be hurting Italy in any way. In fact, judging by what the two of them had been saying, it was probably doing the opposite.

Kid glanced over at the window and Germany ducked out of sight, worried that he had been caught out, but neither of the two teenagers seemed to be doing anything about him. He assumed that he was still safely hidden.

The girl took her hands away.

"I've fixed his leg, spine and ribs," she said, "so he should be able to walk without difficulty. I also took care of his skull so he'd be able to sleep without the fear of a brain haemorrhage, along with the worst of the damage in his arms."

Kid stood up.

"Thank you," he said. "Seriously, thank you."

"No problem," said Kim. "So long as you can pay up."

The young reaper rolled his eyes and pulled out a handful of notes, which the girl took and pocketed with a faint smile.

"Thanks," she said. "I think I'm gonna go home now: I've had enough of Europe to last me a lifetime."

Germany hurriedly dived out of sight as she left.

When he looked through the window again, he saw that Kid was still there, kneeling on the floor, leaning on the bed and looking at Italy's peaceful face. He didn't seem to have noticed that he was being watched.

"You can come in."

He froze.

But-but he hadn't even glanced at the window. Not even once! Well, maybe once, but-

"Don't pretend you're not there, Germany," he said. "I'd recognise your soul wavelength anywhere. I knew you would be in this place somewhere, I never expected anything different."

Oh well. He was caught. There wasn't any point in trying to hide anymore.

He entered the room as quietly as he could and sat down on the opposite side of the bed from Kid, sharing in his concerned examination of Italy's face. He reached forward and gently stroked the sleeping man's cheek.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. There wasn't really very much they could say.

"Do you know what happened?" asked Kid. "The doctor told me about his injuries, but not much about how he received them."

Germany took his hand away from Italy's face.

"I am not too certain," he said. "From what I could tell – from what he told me – his brother was massively drunk and after arriving home, he… took advantage of him. In a manner which I know that even France found disgusting. Italy told me this when he called me early in the morning a little over a week ago. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was more frightened than he had ever been in his entire life. I told him that I was going to come and fetch him because I did not want him in that house with his elder brother for one moment longer, but when I got there…"

"He was already in this state."

"_Ja_."

"And how did that happen?"

Germany took a deep breath.

"Romano had stabbed him with a kitchen knife and pushed him down the stairs into their basement," he explained. "He was still washing the knife when I arrived. By the time he finally revealed to me where Italy was, he was hanging on the edge of death. I have no shame in confessing that I had not been so frightened since the Atlantis incident."

Kid stood up abruptly.

"Where is he?" he demanded. "Where is Romano?"

The large man looked up at him incredulously.

"Could you not sense his soul wavelength?" he asked bitterly.

"I want you to tell me yourself," said Kid in a dangerously calm tone. "I want you to tell me so that I can track him down and tear his asymmetrical face to pieces and pull his soul out of his body with my bare hands-"

"No need," said Germany. "It's thanks to me that he has two black eyes, a broken nose, a broken jaw and a pair of missing teeth. Had France not intervened, I am certain I would have beaten him to death."

He bowed his head in shame.

"You have grown considerably taller since last I saw you," he commented to change the subject. "From what I can tell, you now appear to be only a little shorter than Italy."

Luckily, Kid seemed to understand that there wasn't anything he needed to do concerning Romano. He sank down into the chair behind him with an exasperated sigh.

"I feel so useless," he said. "I should have been able to do something to prevent this."

"How do you think I feel?" asked Germany.

They sat there for a few moments more. Italy's eyelids twitched and he snuffled in his sleep, but thankfully he didn't wake up.

"Who was that girl?" Germany asked after a short while. "The one who was with you. What was she doing to Italy?"

"Kim Diehl is a student at the DWMA who we discovered a few months ago is a witch," Kid explained. "Father and many of the teachers were worried that she was dangerous, but it transpired that she doesn't possess the destructive powers that most witches have. Her field is regeneration, and she was involved a mission in Russia recently, so I managed to convince her to come here and heal Italy somewhat. For a fee, of course."

Germany smiled in gratitude.

"He told me earlier that he was in pain," he said. "Morphine does not appear to have an effect on us nations. I am glad that you could find a way to help him when I could not, Kid. Thank you."

Kid smiled in return.

"I only wish I could do more," he said. "He's my little brother, after all."

He got up and straightened his jacket.

"I should go," he stated. "Father will begin to grow suspicious or worried if I'm gone for too long."

He paused when he reached the door.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked. "Forgive me for intruding, but your wavelength feels a little different to when I sensed it during the Atlantis incident."

Germany stood up too, grateful that this had been brought up.

"Can we please do this in the corridor?" he requested. "I do not wish to risk awakening Italy."

Kid nodded and Germany followed him out of Italy's room.

Once outside, the tall man held his arm out in front of him, closed his eyes, and after a moment's concentration, the business end of a shining weapon replaced his arm from the elbow downwards.

The young reaper's reaction was more toned down than the Italy brother's had been. Both had leapt back and stared in shock, but Kid just looked at it as though only partly interested. His eyes widened briefly, but that was it. Germany was secretly relieved at how well he was taking it.

"Well," he said, "You couldn't have transformed both arms, could you? Then again, I can't say I'm completely shocked."

Germany didn't say anything, waiting for Kid to continue.

"When you're a meister, you have to learn not to judge by appearances," he said. "There are many students in Father's academy who you would never guess slew evil humans for their assignments. Some make it more obvious, but are so audacious in their operations that you would never guess how competent they really are. Tell me, were you born over or under 800 years ago?"

"What does that have to do with this?" asked Germany, who had every right to be confused.

"The first records of demon weapons date back to eight centuries ago," Kid explained. "If you were born over 800 years ago, then it should be impossible for you to have acquired weapon blood."

Germany paused, looking from his blade to the pale face of the Grim Reaper.

"Acquired blood…?" he said.

"Do you know something?" asked Kid.

"I'm not sure," said Germany. "You say 'acquired blood'. Would a transfusion not count as acquiring blood?"

Kid was suddenly thoughtful.

"Technically that's true," he said. "Maybe it's possible for those who don't have weapon powers to gain them by receiving the blood of a weapon, but… I'll have to do a little research. Is that alright with you?"

Germany nodded. He lowered his arm, which transformed back into its everyday shape in a flash of deep orange light.

"In any case," said Kid as he walked away, "it was pleasant chatting with you."

"The same to you."

With that, he departed.

When Germany re-entered Italy's room, he saw that the smaller man was twitching and writhing violently on his bed, whimpering and moaning in what could have been fear, but it was next to impossible to tell.

He was having a nightmare.

The Aryan immediately ran to his side, pulled him into a sitting position (more thankful than ever for young Ms Diehl's abilities) and hugged his shivering body, rubbing his shoulders and trying to comfort him.

They sat like that for a while. Eventually, Italy's body fell limp as the nightmare ended, and Germany lowered him back down onto his mattress.

He remembered all the times that Italy had climbed into bed with him after having a nightmare, and how annoyed he had been with every passing occurrence of this phenomenon, but if _that_ was what Italy having a nightmare was like, he suddenly understood why he wouldn't want to be alone.

If Germany had his way, he would never be alone again.

"I told you," he whispered to the now softly sleeping man, "and I shall tell you again to be clear: I will never, ever leave your side, _mein liebe_. This much I can promise you."

And as gently as he could, he planted a soft kiss on Italy's unmoving lips.

* * *

**I know Kid's fun when he's obsessing over symmetry, but I personally like it when it only gets a passing mention and we see that there's more to him than OCD alone. I mean, I know he's a total nutcase when it comes to symmetry and all, but then again, that's not the only part of his personality. He's also a great fighter and cares for his friends a lot.**

**It was interesting to write for Kim, since she's not really a 'major' character in Soul Eater and I've never written for her before. Plus anyone familiar with the manga will probably have noticed that yes, Kid does grow a lot taller. In the earlier chapters he only comes up to his father's waist (and boy, does Prof. Stein TOWER over him) but towards the end, he comes up to Lord Death's shoulder. And Lord Death is pretty damn tall. That's no small feat (unlike the small feet that many characters seem to possess in the latest chapters).**

**Please note that the story won't always be this dark. It will get lighter… hopefully. And Italy will most likely get better. I don't think I can make any promises this early. PS it's my personal headcanon that you can get weapon powers via a blood transfusion (it only makes sense – after all, the gene is carried in the blood, right?) and that Italy's favourite colour is blue (maybe it was France's coat from WW2).**

**Apologies to Soul Eater readers if I gave away any spoilers.**

**Please reviewy-view-view.**


	3. Not Going Home

"Where is he?! WHERE IS THAT BASTARD SON OF A BITCH?!"

Romano paused in peeling the bandage off his nose as the door banged open behind him. Before he could make another move, a strong brown-clad arm wrapped around his neck and took hold of his chin and a second hand grasped the back of his head. If he wanted to, the person holding him could break his neck in just one swift movement.

"Gimme a reason," snarled the owner of the arms. "Go on. Gimme a good fucking reason why I shouldn't just end you right here and now. Come on! Do it!"

Rather than speaking, Romano elbowed his attacker in the stomach and caused him to loosen his grip, then wrenched the arms away from his head and pushed the assailant back.

"You don't even get it, do you?" asked America when he was done stumbling away. "You don't even realise what you've done! He saved your life, didn't he? From Atlantis? There should be a special place in hell for people like you!"

"Then why don't you go check for yourself, bastard?" Romano replied. "And say hi to your mother, you stupid hamburger-eating cocksucker!"

America dived at him with a hand balled into a fist, but the shorter man jumped out of the way before he made contact. He brought his foot up for a kick, but America grabbed his ankle, pulled him forward and hit him with a solid headbutt. Due to the fact that Romano wasn't made of such stern stuff as the other man, he was almost knocked unconscious, which gave America the opportunity to grab his neck and pull him up, retreating his fist for a punch which would probably shoot right through Romano's head and out the other side-

"Stop it, you stupid wanker!"

"Get a hold of yourself-aru!"

"Try to calm down, _mon ami!_"

A pair of hands landed on each of America's arms and their combined strength, along with the assistance of a crutch pressing into his stomach, restrained him and allowed Romano to struggle out of his grip. The two men stared at each other, trying to catch their respective breaths.

"What's the matter?" asked Romano. "Don't wanna upset your boyfriend?"

America snarled incoherently in response.

"Come on!" Romano said tauntingly. "Let's see if you can fight 'em off! Be a man, hamburger bastard!"

"You should stop now, da?"

As America tried to shake off the firm grip of England, China and France, Russia wrapped his arms around Romano's chest and lifted him clear of the ground, and both furious men struggled against the others holding them back and tried to restart the fearsome battle-

"THAT IS _ENOUGH!_"

-until Germany stepped between them with his arms outstretched, effectively separating the two.

"First of all," he shouted in his most commanding voice, "America, you should know better than to deliberately antagonise this man and try to attack him while it is little more than a miracle that you managed to enter this room without being halted by the police officers. They could have shot you if they were in the mood, so get a hold of yourself, you _dummkopf!_"

He turned to Romano.

"And you," he said in a voice which was dangerously quiet, "are going to be held accountable for the atrocious crimes you have committed against your younger brother-"

"Why the hell are you sugar-coating it like that?!" America demanded. "Why don't you just flat-out say it? You know you're thinking it, he's thinking it, everybody here is thinking it! He fucking _raped_ him, Germany. Romano raped his little brother and then tried to kill him when he never did anything wrong. Nothing. At. All! And if you're not gonna kick his ass, then I'm gonna do it for you-"

"STOP THIS NOW!" Germany pressed America backwards and almost caused the trio restraining him to fall over.

Then he turned back to Romano.

"Of all the people in this room, I am possibly the one who most wants to kill you," he stated, and the calmness in his voice only made it all the more obvious how angry he really was. "If I had my way, I would have finished you off right there in that house and left you in your brother's place, and I would not have needed a knife to accomplish that feat."

"Yeah, right," Romano spat. "I know that. Shoulda told me earlier how much of a freak you really were-"

"If you do not shut your mouth," Russia muttered to him, "I shall do something I may come to regret."

It was sadly impossible for the Italian to shrink away, but he tried his best.

"Are you done making a fool of yourself?" England asked America.

The bespectacled man nodded weakly and allowed himself to be dragged out of the room. Germany followed in his wake, and Russia dropped the still-steaming Romano unceremoniously to the floor and was the last person to leave the room.

Heaving a sigh of exasperation, Romano climbed back onto his bed.

"Shit," he swore quietly, burying his face in his hands. "What the hell have I done?"

* * *

They regrouped in the waiting room, slumping into the surrounding chairs.

"America, what the hell were you thinking?" asked England. "Are you really so foolish as to try to beat a man to death in a hospital?"

"So what if I am?" America snapped. "Somebody's gotta try, right? That guy's such a bastard, he- people like him, they- I don't know, okay? I do not. Fucking. Know!"

"I am thinking perhaps," Russia piped up, "that because America himself is in possession of younger sibling, he finds it unthinkable that someone with position similar to his could ever commit such outrageous act against one younger than themselves. I know I find it unthinkable."

"Me too-aru," added China, running a hand through his hair in exasperation (it had only just grown long enough to no longer be considered a shaggy mess). "Speaking as one who has multiple younger siblings to care for, I see no possible excuse for Romano's actions. I personally think he should be locked away and never allowed to see the light of day-aru."

"Would you like to know the worst part?" asked France. "_Italie_ does not even believe that Romano has done anything wrong. He is insisting that it was not his fault because he was drunk, but I personally do not see that as an excuse. I do not hide that I enjoy the miracles of _l'amour_, especially the physical side, but I would never do such a thing. Especially not to my little brother."

"Why the hell do you look at me when you say that?" England demanded moodily. "I mean, you're right and it seriously pains me to admit it, but still, what the hell?"

"_Hai_, I also agree with France-san."

Almost everyone jumped out of their seats.

"The hell?!" cried America. "Where did _you_ come from?!"

"I apologise for not accompanying you into that room," said Japan, "but I'm afraid that with everyone else in there as well, it would have been too… _small_ for my liking."

He shivered at the notion.

"Dude, you gotta talk to someone about that," America commented. "I coulda used your help in there."

"I already said that I apologise," Japan replied. "In any case, I thought that we could all use a snack, so I bought some cheap potato chips from the café."

He distributed them to his fellow nations, who all expressed their gratitude.

"Would you like some, Germany-san?"

There was no reply.

"Germany? Are you alright-aru?"

Still nothing

Germany was sitting a few seats away, in a seat from which he could clearly see the Intensive Care Unit. Occasionally he would cast a wistful look at the observation window of Italy's room, but mostly he was slouched forward, face buried in his hands.

"'Sup with him?" asked America through a mouthful of greasy fried potato.

"What do you think?" said England angrily. "Wasn't he the one who found Italy in the first place?"

"_Oui_, that is correct," said France. "I do not think I have ever seen him so shaken in all the time I have known him. And believe me when I say that I have known him for a long time."

Silence settled upon the group: awkward, uncomfortable silence.

"We should comfort him-aru," said China. "I can feel his depressing-ness from here."

"_Da_, is that not my job?" asked Russia.

"Allow me to try," Japan requested. "We fought together in days long past. Forgive me, but I doubt any of the rest of you would stand any chance."

As the former Allied Powers glared at him angrily due to his remark, the black-haired nation walked over to where Germany was seated and selected the chair beside the tall blonde.

He didn't talk for a moment. He didn't want to rush things.

"It's a mess," he commented.

"_Ja_," Germany replied.

A moment of silence.

"I mean, forget the circumstances for a moment," said Japan, trying to sound casual. "I could never have believed that Italy-kun would ever be so badly hurt."

"_Ja_."

More silence.

"It came as rather a shock."

"_Ja_."

And more silence.

"There were so many times in the past when all of us were in mortal danger," Japan commented, "but Italy-kun… maybe it was thanks to his persistent cowardice, but he always seemed to escape unharmed. Maybe it is only when the world is peaceful that he is most likely to be hurt."

"Maybe."

Yet another awkward pause.

"What do you think is going to happen to Romano-san?"

Germany removed his face from his hands and stared blankly into space.

"If I had my way," he said, "he would be tortured in all of the most painful and inhumane methods possible until he was on the very edge of death. Then he would be healed and nursed back into health, but only so that he could be tortured again, and if I had my way, it would be a cycle that would continue until the end of time. And I would never allow him to see his _bruder_ ever again. He is undeserving of that privilege."

"_Hai_, that sounds appropriate."

"But unfortunately it is more likely that he will simply be sent to prison for half a century. Perhaps less if Italy has any say in the matter, seeing how he has glorified his brother so much."

After a moment's thought, Japan offered Germany the one remaining unopened packet of chips.

"Here," he said. "I heard you have not eaten for over a week. You must be hungry."

Germany took the plastic bag with a murmuring of thanks, but didn't open it.

The two sat there for a moment longer.

"How long has it been since the Atlantis incident?" Japan asked. "Forgive me, but in my old age I seem to have forgotten."

"Nine months," Germany replied. "More or less."

Japan's fingers wandered upwards and felt along the thin dark line which ran almost the entire width of the right side of his face, an uncomfortable reminder of days long past.

"Do you think maybe Romano-san was affected more than he let on?"

"Perhaps. And he always was a solitary soul. Preferred to stew in his own juices, sort of thing. Considering what all of us went through, it may have been unwise to leave Italy in his custody."

"_Hai_," said Japan, and a smile spread across his face as he added, "I suppose you would have preferred to keep Italy-kun by _your_ side, am I correct?"

Germany shot Japan an accusing look.

"What exactly are you insinuating, Japan?" he asked.

A few feet away, the Allies started to laugh.

"And what are you all laughing at?" Germany demanded.

The anger in his voice, combined with the disapproving frown, only made the others laugh even more. Even Japan allowed himself a little snigger.

"Is there suddenly something wrong with me acting concerned for Italy?" asked Germany. "You disgust me. Every single one of you."

He got up and walked over to Italy's room, disappearing once the door was closed and leaving the other nations staring after him in yet another bout of awkward silence.

"You think we were jerks?" asked America.

* * *

"Are you certain that this is really what you want? You can stay for longer if you wish."

"No, it's fine. I can walk now, can't I?"

"_Ja_, but-"

"Germany," said Italy, "it's fine. Really."

He stood up, teetering a little on his unstable legs as he tried to keep his balance.

"Ve~ I'm still not sure I understand," he said. "You're saying a witch did it?"

"_Ja_," Germany replied.

He watched as Italy tried to keep his balance. In any other situation, the smaller man would probably have waved his arms around wildly to keep from falling over, but that would have been a little difficult when he considered that both of them were broken. He eyed his hospital gown with a frown and cast his eyes to the clothes which were draped over the arm of a nearby chair.

"I-I know this might sound kinda awkward," he said, bowing his head in embarrassment, "but… Germany, could you help me…"

Had this been around seventy years ago, Germany would have about turned and left the room, flushing red in embarrassment. He thought that eventually he'd grow used to Italy's wanton desire to shun clothes and shamelessly display his naked body, but now it was the 21st century and that still hadn't happened.

This time, though, he was going to have to grit his teeth and bear it. At least the smaller man had his back to him at the moment.

He unknotted the string which held the thin fabric around Italy's body and gently slid the gown off his shoulders, careful not to disturb his arms too much on the way down and put him in any more pain than he was in already.

When the fabric was down to Italy's hips, he paused and stared at the bruises, which were only just beginning to turn yellow and fade.

"Is that where Romano held you?"

Italy nodded imperceptibly.

"I am sorry," said Germany. "I should have been there to protect you. I should have been there for you when you needed me."

The smaller man bowed his head. In any other context, Germany would have been relishing in his silence, but right now it felt as though his heart was slowly being torn out piece by piece.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. He wanted to break the silence by any means possible.

"Better than yesterday," Italy replied, "but my arms still hurt. They hurt a lot. So does my stomach. I suppose those aren't really that important."

"Would you… would you allow me to see where he stabbed you?"

Without a word, Italy turned to face him.

The wound was a thin, stitched up, vertical line around an inch long which sat near the centre of his torso, a few centimetres below his sternum. The skin around the edges was pinkish-red and irritated looking. Germany wanted to touch it, but refrained out of concerns for Italy's wellbeing. Reaching behind him for a fresh pair of underwear (Italy probably wouldn't be very happy about putting on boxers that were soaked in his blood) he allowed the hospital gown to fall to the ground, leaving the smaller man standing stark naked before him.

Despite himself, Germany couldn't help but blush as he helped Italy into his new boxers. It faded once the smaller man's privates were covered up, but too late: Italy had noticed and a faint smile lit up his eyes and stayed there until his trousers were safely fastened around his waist, mostly concealing his bruises.

"What is so amusing?" asked Germany, trying to sound strict, but not _too_ strict.

"Ve~ you were blushing," said Italy. "You're so cute when you blush, Germany."

"D-don't say things like that!" cried Germany, another blush tainting his features. "It is inappropriate!"

He picked up the shirt.

"But all the same," he said as he helped Italy put his arms through the sleeves, "it is good to see you smiling again."

Italy's head popped out of the neck hole and his curl sprang back into position with a small _pyoiyoiyoiyoiyoing_, like the noise a thin stick of metal (like a sword) might make if it was bent back and allowed to spring forward and wobble.

"Ve~ don't beat yourself up because you couldn't get to me in time, Germany," said Italy. "I'm just glad that you came for me at all."

"I promised you back in the Second World War that I would always look out for you," Germany reminded him. "I am not a man who would break a promise. Especially to a person I…"

"You what?"

"Nothing."

As he helped Italy to hang his left arm (wrapped in a cast similar to the one on his right) in a sling, tears began to brew in the brunette's eyes.

"I still don't understand though," he said in a voice which was as cracked as the bones in his arms. "Why would Romano ever do such a thing? I-I know he was drunk, I get that, but I've never hurt him in all the time I've known him. I don't think I did anything to upset him or make him angry. Not deliberately, at least. Why would he do this to me?"

Germany pulled him forward and allowed him to cry into his shoulder.

"I wish I could answer that," he told him. "I really do."

* * *

"West!" Prussia called as his younger brother climbed out of the car. "Glad you're home, _bruder_. I tried to put my socks in the washer, but I dropped them they ran off and I think they're still hiding under the couch, so you think you could get a gun out or something and…"

He trailed off as Germany opened the passenger door and Italy got out, and the larger man started to lead him towards the house with an arm wrapped around his shoulders. The smallest man kept his head bowed and didn't say a single word.

"Can this wait until we get inside?" asked Germany.

"Uh, _ja_," Prussia replied nervously. "Sure."

Germany gently steered Italy into his house and sat him down once he located a comfortable couch. When he asked, the small man said that yes, he would like something to drink, so Prussia met up with his younger brother in the kitchen.

"You wanna tell me what he's doing here?" he demanded. "What, you didn't want his brother to keep him to himself, so you brought him here so you could share with that tomato-obsessed _arschloch_?"

"I am going to pretend I did not hear that," said Germany as he filled up a glass stein at the tap. He made a point of ignoring his brother until he returned, at which point he sat down at the table and buried his face in his hands with a sigh. Prussia sat across from him.

"You're right," he said, "that was dumbass, I shouldn't have said that, that was bad."

"Yes," Germany replied, removing his face from his hands, "and not only that, but it was ridiculously inappropriate. How could you say something like that when he is most likely never going to be the same person as he was before he was…?"

"_Scheiße_," Prussia swore. "Sorry, bro."

"Just forget it," said Germany. "I thought that it would be difficult for him to return to his own home, so I offered him a chance to stay here for a while, at least until he is feeling better. Of course, I don't know when that might be, so you should prepare yourself for an extended stay on his behalf."

"You're kidding, right?" Prussia cried indignantly. "I had a shitload of plans for tomorrow! I was gonna get wasted and wreck the place! It woulda been awesome and it would be even more awesome 'coz I was gonna be there-"

"Will you _please_ stop whining like a little child?!" Germany demanded as he leapt to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. "Why are you acting so… so… apathetic about this? I don't know if you knew about this, but last week Italy was most likely permanently mentally damaged and very nearly lost his life! How would you have felt if you were in my shoes on that morning? How would you have felt if it were- if- if it were Austria or Hungary or even me whom you found lying in a pool of blood on the very edge of death?! What if it was you who bore the knowledge that if you had been but a single second later, the person whom you cared about more than anyone else in the world would have died alone and terrified? And don't you DARE try to tell me that it would be different if you were in the same situation! You have emotions just like everybody else, but you are just too much of a _dummkopf_ to acknowledge their existence!"

"_Bruder_-"

"Or what if it was you who were in Italy's place? What if it was you who were assaulted and taken advantage of in the most unthinkable manner in the world and then almost murdered by the same person who just happened to be someone who you had looked up to and relied on ever since you were little more than a child? Would you just brush it off and walk off to the beer hall to meet your friends? Would you simply continue on with your life as though nothing had happened? You know, there's some times when I wonder if your brain ever came out of the Dark Ages or if you had some kind of mental deficiency, or even if we are even related to one another, and let me tell you that _this day_ is NO EXCEPTION!"

"Bro, please-"

"_NEIN!_" Germany screamed, thumping his hands on the table and splintering the wood. "_NEIN! NEIN! _A THOUSAND TIMES _NEIN!_ Just for this once, Prussia, just for the rest of the day, for a single evening, you are going to SHUT. YOUR. MOUTH. And if you open it to say a single word, then I shall ensure that you never speak again for the rest of your sorry excuse of a life! THINK ABOUT SOMETHING FOR ONCE, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF _SCHEIßE__!_"

…

…

…

It was a while before anything moved.

Germany stood, hands balled into fists, shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his blue eyes burning into the face of his elder brother. Prussia could only sit in his seat, staring dumbly at the enraged blonde's face, his own features showing that his mind had drawn a blank.

He opened his mouth and tried to talk, but only silence came out.

"Bro-" he choked. "_Bruder_… West, I… I…"

"_Fick dich_," Germany spat at him. "_Fick dich, bruder_."

He threw the door open and left the room, leaving his elder brother alone with his thoughts.

Prussia felt… numb.

He hadn't been screamed at by his little brother like that since… since… _ever_. Germany had _never_ blown up at him like that before. And from the sounds of things, it was as if it had been building up for quite a while.

Was he really that terrible?

He didn't want to move. He had to physically force himself to get up from the table.

When he did, he tiptoed through his house (tiptoeing through his own house, who'd have thought it?) until he found the room where his younger brother had left Italy.

He saw them, sitting together on the couch, and Germany had the smaller man wrapped in his arms and bawling his eyes out. He would sometimes blubber something like "I heard you" and "I was so scared" and Germany would shush him and whisper reassurances into his ear.

"It's okay," he said. "You are safe now. No harm will come to you here."

"I…" Italy moaned. "I'm sorry, Germany. I'm… I've never heard you… so angry…"

"I know," Germany replied, "and I wasn't angry at you. I'm sorry that I frightened you, I didn't intend to."

There were tears rolling down his cheeks as well.

Silent, heartbroken tears.

* * *

Hours later, when night had fallen and Italy had exhausted himself from crying, Germany carried him up to his bedroom and laid him on his bed, pulling the covers up and over his sleeping body. The big man knew that he would most likely have nightmares and want to get into bed with him, so he decided to save him the trouble of getting up.

He considered undressing him, but decided against it. He wouldn't want to be mistaken for a cheap pervert, especially considering _why _the sweet little brunette was here rather than back at his own home. And he didn't want to risk waking Italy up when he was sleeping so peacefully. Germany couldn't resist leaning over and giving him a small kiss on the cheek.

When he left the room, his brother was waiting for him in the corridor.

"_Ja?_" he said. "What do you want?"

Prussia wrung his hands nervously and tried to avoid looking at Germany's face.

"_B-Bruder_, I-I…" he stammered. "Look, I-I've been thinking. Abo-about what you said. And… well…"

"What?"

The albino sighed.

"You're right," he said. "I don't know what it's like. I-I've never found somebody I love lying on the floor, almost dead, I- I've never experienced anything like that, but…"

"_Ja?_ But what?"

Prussia looked up at Germany, wine-red eyes full of defiance.

"But I do know what it's like to worry if someone I love is going to live to see another day," he pointed out. "I spent almost two weeks fearing that I was never going to see your face again, if you forgot. I-I didn't know where you'd gone, I didn't know what happened to you and I didn't know if the next time I saw you, I'd be identifying you in a morgue or something. And you're right. Y-you're right, I'm an _arschloch_ to just treat this like it's nothing, and… well, I never thought I say this, but… I'm sorry."

He looked up at the bedroom door.

"He's taking your bed?" he asked. "Where're you gonna sleep?"

"With him," said Germany. "He is bound to suffer from night terrors, so I thought it best to save him the journey and allow him to sleep in my bed with me so he doesn't wake me up when he is getting in."

Prussia nodded in understanding.

"_Bruder_, I'm so sorry."

Germany pulled his brother into a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry I'm a _dummkopf_," Prussia moaned. "I'm sorry I can't take anything seriously. I can try harder, I swear!"

The larger man didn't say anything. It was unfortunate, but he had grown used to this over the past few months. All he had to do was hold onto him until he stopped crying. He allowed himself a secret smile: he was glad that his brother no longer considered them to be fighting and had found the maturity and strength of character to apologise.

"I am at just as much fault as you," he said. "I should never have admonished you so harshly, and for that I apologise."

He felt Prussia run a finger along the smallest of the four scars which marred a majority of his back. Was he ever going to get over that?

"Don't blame you, bro," he said. "Even I know I can be a total buttcrack sometimes."

Despite himself, Germany almost laughed.

"I think I should go to bed," said Prussia, stepping out of his brother's grip. "Thinking kinda tired me out."

"Why am I not surprised?" asked Germany. "I think I shall go downstairs. I am a little thirsty."

"'Kay, _guten nacht, bruder!_"

"_Ja, ja, guten nacht._"

As he watched him disappear into his bedroom, Germany had to admit something to himself: his brother may be an idiot, but he wouldn't trade him for anything in the world.

He descended the stairs and entered his kitchen, wondering whether he should get a new table, and poured himself a drink of-

"There you are!"

"Took you long enough."

"We've been waiting for ages!"

Very slowly, Germany closed the fridge and turned to face the intruders.

"And what the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

* * *

**I know that this is probably going to sound a bit petty, but if you're going to review, could you please spell check? I'm a bit OCD in regards to spelling and grammar.**

**I love dramatic outbursts. There, I said it. I still consider chapter 12 of Job to be one of my magnum opuses and I hear a lot of them from my family, so I have a lot of experience with that sort of thing. I especially like it when they're so big that the person they're directed at doesn't know what to say. It was **_**that**_** big.**

**Also, I am going to say this once and for all: within the course of this story, Italy and the rest of main cast of Hetalia shall _not_ be meeting the rest of the main cast of Soul Eater. Soul? Not here. Maka? Elsewhere. Black*Star? Too big for a fic like this. Tsubaki? Probably trying to stop her meister from doing something stupid. I'm afraid you're going to have to wait until Quantum of Solace before they arrive, but I will let you know something about a future chapter...**

**A character is going to say 'yes' at some point. ****I know, it's a massive spoiler, but I couldn't keep it in any longer!**

**I feed on reviews. Do not let me starve.**


	4. Truth Will Out

Very slowly, Germany closed the fridge and turned to face the intruders.

"And what the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Ain't it obvious?" America asked as he got up from his chair. "We wanted to talk to you!"

"Has your table always had a pair of large dents in it?" asked England. "Or are they a fairly recent addition?"

"_Ja_," Germany said weakly, "they're new- look, why are you here? And how did you enter my house in the first place? Did Prussia let you in? Is this his ridiculous idea of a joke?"

"Are you saying I'm a joke?" England demanded angrily.

"Dude, didn't I just say we wanted to talk?" asked America. "C'mon, chillax for a minute!"

"There is nothing I would like more than to be able to, as you say, 'chillax'," said Germany, "but I would prefer it if you were to keep the noise to a minimum because Italy and _mein bruder_ are upstairs and I do not want them to come down!"

"Alright, alright!" America said. "Jeez, you're such a killjoy!"

"My apologies," Germany said as he sat down at his table, "I do not intend to kill your joy, but would you mind telling me what exactly you came here to talk to me about?"

"Nothing much," said England. "It's just something that's been nagging at me since earlier today-"

"And I helped him get into this place!" America piped up.

Germany's face remained flat as he ignored the idiot's remark. He patiently waited for England to continue.

"It's only minor, like I said," the thick-eyebrowed man explained, "but when you were threatening Romano, you said that you wouldn't need a knife to kill him. Also, he said that you were a freak. What I'm wondering is-"

"What'd he mean?"

"I was just about to say that, you stupid Yank."

Germany decided not to incriminate himself by replying. He knew that this was bound to happen sooner or later – it wasn't exactly something he could keep a secret for the rest of his life. Secretly, he was pleased to have finally been exposed.

He held up his arm and concentrated.

"Dude, what're you doing?" asked America. "What's with your- WHAT?!"

"Bloody hell!"

Both the other nations leapt backwards (America went so far as to fall off his chair and sprawl untidily over the floor while England just stood bolt upright) at the sight of Germany's lower arm as it transformed into its weapon form in a wash of deep orange light.

For a few moments, nothing moved.

England leant in for a closer look.

"Wow," he breathed. "That's pretty impressive."

"Impressive?" cried America as he ecstatically leapt to his feet. "Dude, it's completely and totally awesome! Germany's a _weapon_ now, how cool is that?! And what is that? It's a- it's kinda old fashioned, but shit if it ain't the most awesome thing I've ever seen in my whole entire life!"

"Germany," said England, "exactly how long have you known about this?"

"Around seven months," Germany confessed as he returned his arm to normal. "Give or take a week."

"What?" said America. "And you didn't think to tell anyone before now?"

"I did," Germany revealed. "I told Italy and he promised that he would keep it a secret. I suppose it's a miracle that he actually succeeded, and nobody else has found out since then."

"You didn't even tell Prussia?" America asked. "Man, he is gonna be _pissed_."

"Only if he finds out," Germany pointed out. "Are either of you going to tell him?"

His question was met only with nervous silence.

"Very well," said England, "I promise I shall not tell a soul about this. Your secret is safe with me, Germany."

He shot a glare at America.

"I will make no such promises," the bespectacled man declared.

"Suit yourself," said Germany as he stood up. "If you two do not mind, I would like to go to bed as I have had a rather challenging day today. I would also prefer it if you were to leave my house as soon as possible because I don't want the place to stink of tea and hamburgers."

"HOW DARE YOU INSINUATE SUCH I THING YOU KNOW WHAT YOU SAUSAGEY BEER-DRINKING BASTARDING SODDING KRAUT I OUGHT TO WRITE UP A BRAND NEW TREATY OF VERSAILLE JUST FOR THAT BLOODY STUPID REMARK AND I WOULD SHOVE IT ALL THE WAY UP YOUR STUPID BLOODY ARSE AND-"

"Again," America said as he picked up the screaming England, "awesome. Check you later, German-dude."

"_Guten nacht_."

"-AND AFTER THAT I'LL FORCE YOU TO WATCH ALL OF MY SCIENCE FICTION TELEVISION PROGRAMS FROM BEGINNING TO END AND MAKE YOU EAT MY CURRY PIZZA WITH A SIDE ORDER OF BACON AND EGGS-"

Germany waited until he heard the front door open and close. Once he was satisfied that the two intruders had left his house, he finished his drink, washed the glass, dried it and put it away. Even at this time of night, he couldn't afford let his home be untidy.

At least he wasn't as bad as the young reaper.

He allowed himself a small smile. It was good to know that Kid was still looking out for Italy after all this time. He was definitely a better big brother than Romano could ever hope to be.

He started to head upstairs. Italy would probably be waiting for him.

When he reached his bedroom, he discovered that the smaller man was still fast asleep in his bed, lying on his back with his arms laid over the top of the covers. He didn't move beyond the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed as Germany entered the room.

He looked so adorable.

As Germany climbed into bed, his eyelids began to twitch and a small moan escaped his closed lips. His legs began to kick and scrunch up the covers, and the larger man realised that this was the beginning of another nightmare.

"Nnnh…" he groaned. "No… please… no…"

Germany froze.

'Is he remembering it?' he wondered. 'What happened to him?'

"I… I don't…" Italy muttered. "I don't want… this, no… I don't want this… stop… _fratello_, please…"

He was.

"Don't be afraid," said Germany, and he wrapped an arm around his chest and held him close. "There's nothing to be frightened of. He cannot hurt you."

"Germany…" moaned Italy. "Please… someone… anyone… help me…"

* * *

"-AND THEN WHEN I'VE FINISHED WITH THAT I'M GOING TO-"

"Dude, calm down!" cried America. "Jeez, what the hell's wrong with you? Take a goddamn chill pill!"

When England still didn't desist in his ranting, America slammed a hand over his mouth and pressed hard, waiting for him to run out of air. When his face began to turn blue, the taller man released him. He dropped to his knees and tried to catch his breath.

"What…" he panted, "the hell… is wrong… with you?"

"You're the one who wouldn't shut the hell up," America pointed out. "How else was I gonna make you be quiet?"

"Surely there was… a gentler way…"

"That's what she said."

While the younger man snorted with laughter, England shot him his most infuriated Look. Not a look, but a Look. The capital letter is vital in telling the difference.

"When are you going to grow up?" he asked.

America just rolled his eyes and helped him to his feet.

"Come on," he said, "the others are bound to be waiting for us."

They started to walk away from the house, heading for the road which would lead them back to the hotel where they and the other nations were staying.

"There must have been a less painful way to make me be quiet," said England. "Couldn't you have just, oh I don't know, asked me to be quiet? Or maybe even told me to shut up?"

"I tried that," said America. "I said 'shut up' like, fifty times!"

"Well, you should have said it fifty one!" exclaimed England.

America laughed loudly at his seemingly pointless anger. When frowning at him furiously didn't work, England decided to just wait for him to stop.

"Aren't you in the least bit concerned about the fact that a person we fought against last century now has abilities which have so far been hitherto undiscovered in our kind before?" he asked. "I thought you wouldn't be able to shut up about it."

"You still hung up about that?" asked America. "WW-Deuce was ages and ages ago, give it a break!"

"I know that!" England almost shouted. "It's the weapon powers that I'm concerned about! Who the hell knows what he'll be able to do now?"

"Uh… sharpen pencils without the lead breaking off and getting stuck inside?"

"That was a rhetorical question, you git!"

"A what?"

England sighed heavily and buried his face in his hand.

"I shouldn't have expected anything other than idiocy from somebody who doesn't even know what it means when you catch a cold," he groaned. "You don't realise how significant this is, do you? Everything that we – not just you and I, but every single one of us – know about ourselves is going to have to be rewritten!"

"Again, take a chill pill!" said America. "It's not like all of us have weapon powers now, is it? Hell, I know I don't have 'em!"

England paused.

"Dude, something wrong?" asked his companion.

"No," England replied, "not necessarily, but… where is this 'DWMA' building?"

"Uh… Nevada, isn't it? Ain't that what the reaper guy said? He said something like… um… I forget."

"'My name is Death the Kid'," England recited. "'I'm from Death Weapon Meister Academy, or DWMA for short, situated in the deserts of Nevada'. I think that's what he said, my memory's a little fuzzy."

America stared at him.

"You _memorised_ what he said?" he deadpanned.

"Yes," said England. "It's amazing what you can remember if you actually listen to people."

"But it was- but it was just one sentence!" cried America. "And you heard it once and that was nine months ago! How the fuck did you remember that?"

"I have a very good memory!" said England, and he started walking again. "I'm going to do a little research on this once we get back to the hotel, alright? And I'd really prefer it if you could shut up for the rest of the journey."

"What? But-"

"Shut up."

"Aw, come on-"

"Shut up."

"C'mon, Iggy, I can't-"

"Shut."

"But-"

"Up."

"…Fuck you."

* * *

When Italy awoke the next morning, he wondered if he had died during the night and gone to heaven. His body was warm and comfortable, there were covers over him which were soft and smooth beneath his fingers, and his arms were hardly hurting at all. The pain had faded to a dull, barely there ache. The light flooding into the room was bright, but not so bright that it burned his eyes, and it warmed his face and his bare hands.

And, perhaps best of all, Germany had his arm across his chest and was hugging him as though he were a teddy bear.

He reached up and gently felt along the arm, running his fingers over the perfectly toned muscles and the flawless skin, until he reached the big man's face and laid his hand on his cheek. Luckily, he remained fast asleep and completely ignorant.

'I really wish this plaster wasn't on my hands,' he thought. 'I want to be able to be with you without it hurting, Germany. You're strong, you're smart, you're kind, you're gentle, you're handsome, you save me and come to protect me when I'm in trouble and you're always there for me. You're absolutely perfect in every way and I love you, Germany. I wish I wasn't such a coward, because then I'd be able to tell you without getting scared and running away.'

"And to think," he muttered quietly to himself, "I promised myself I was going to get stronger…"

He knew now that it had been a foolish endeavour. It had been three quarters of a year already and he hadn't changed one little bit. He was still the same old Italy: he still made pasta for dinner almost every night, still bowed to the whims of those stronger than him, still hid under his bed every time there was a thunderstorm. If anything, he had been doing that _more_ since the Atlantis incident. He wasn't going forwards, he was going _backwards_, and a couple of weeks ago he had gone so far as to allow his brother to destroy him.

"_Romano? Romano, are you okay?_"

It would probably be replaying over and over again in his mind for the rest of his life.

"_Romano, what are you doing? No, please, stop!_"

"_Shut up! Just shut up, you stupid little bastard!_"

"_No, you're drunk, please-_"

"_I said shut up!_"

He withdrew his fingers from Germany's face, although he wanted to never let him go, and rested it just under his other arm, which was still in his sling. His eyes fell upon the ceiling and proved unable to move.

"_No, Romano, I don't want this! Stop, please!_"

"_I said SHUT UP!_"

"_Roma- _fratello_, you're hurting me. No, please, don't tie me up, please!_"

He closed his eyes, hoping maybe he could drive out the memories, but it was useless. It was as though his mind had recorded every last second in perfect detail just for the sake of torturing him.

"Fratello_, please! This is wrong! I DON'T WANT THIS- ah!_"

"_There! Now you made me hit you! Just shut up already!_"

"_But I don't want this! PLEASE, I DON'T WANT THIS!_"

A tear trickled down his face and mixed with the cold sweat on his forehead.

To think, after all this, Germany still wanted to be around him and could look at him without his eyes filling with disgust and hatred.

"_NOO! NO PLEASE NO! Stop! STOP! __**STOOOP!**_"

Even Kid still saw him as human, and not just that, but he had got somebody to heal him as well. He was definitely a far better big brother than Romano had ever been.

Romano…

"_PLEASE ROMANO! NOOO! IT HURTS! STOP! __**PLEEEASE!**_"

"_Shut up already!_"

"_ROMANO PLEASE! I DON'T WANT THIS! __**I DON'T WANT THIS, STOP!**_"

"_Shut your mouth, you worthless piece of shit!_"

"FRATELLO_, NO! STOP! NO MORE PLEASE, I- mmmpf!_"

"_Now I don't want to hear any more noise out of you, so SHUT UP!_"

He loved his brother so much that it was painful. Not in the same way he loved Germany, but he definitely loved him. The knowledge that Romano had hurt him in that way was unthinkable. He knew that his _fratello_ was bitter towards him, but he had never understood just how much. Or why.

Italy knew he should be moving on. He had been told that Romano would be held accountable for his crimes and most likely sent to prison for them, but he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever see his brother – the brother he had looked up to and idolised throughout most of his time knowing him – ever again. The brother who had always been there to make sure he wouldn't do anything stupid. The brother who had held him close and protected him from harm in every earthquake. The brother who had comforted him during the lonely nights when they had split and joined the Allies in WW2, and he couldn't sleep with Germany anymore when he had nightmares. The brother who had stood with him and held his hand as Benito Mussolini was executed, and when the news arrived that their grandfather was dead, and every time a new pope had to be selected…

As he lay with his eyes softly closed, he felt a hand brush against his face.

"Ve~ Germany?"

It was withdrawn in a snap.

"You're awake?" said Germany, in a voice which sounded as though he was trying very hard to be angry. "Why did you not tell me you were awake? Would that have been so hard?"

He opened his eyes and smiled innocently at Germany.

"Because you were asleep," he said simply. "Ve~ well, I thought you were asleep. You looked so peaceful when you were sleeping."

Germany blushed furiously.

"Be that as it may," he said, "you should have informed me that you were awake."

"But I didn't want to wake you up."

The blush faded.

"Ve~ we you trying to wipe my tears away?" asked Italy.

"_Ja_, I confess," said Germany. "There is nothing I want more than for you to be able to sleep peacefully."

"Because of all the times I jumped into bed with you and woke you up?"

"I name no reasons."

He got out of bed and started to take his clothes off.

"Ve~ are you taking a shower?"

"_Ja_, unless Prussia has got to it before me."

Italy settled back down into the comfortable bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and allowing himself another small smile.

"I'm gonna stay here for a little while longer," he said. "Is that okay with you?"

"_Ja_, it's fine."

He left the room, and Italy was alone with his thoughts.

If his arms weren't damaged, he would have curled up on his side, but as it was he was left lying on his back.

There was a phone by the side of the bed.

Italy glanced at the clock, which told him that it was a quarter to seven in the morning. Yes, it was pretty likely that at least one of them would still be awake – it couldn't be that late in Nevada – so…

He picked up the receiver.

"What is it again?" he wondered out loud. "Oh yeah. Same as the mirror one."

He awkwardly leaned forward and dialled the number, reciting it as he pressed the numbers:

"Four… two… four… two… five… six… four… whenever you wanna knock on Death's door."

He sat back and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Eventually though:

"Death the Kid's residence."

"Liz?" Italy cried happily. "Omigosh Liz, is that you?"

"Italy?" said the girl on the other end of the line. "Italy, is that you? I can't believe it, I haven't heard from you in ages!"

"I know, it's been for like, ever!" said Italy. "Ve~ is Kid there?"

"Yeah!" cried Liz. "Yeah, hang on a sec, we only just got back and he's kinda messed up in the head at the moment, maybe you can help calm him down a bit."

He listened as she held the receiver away from her face and yelled for Kid to come and answer the phone. He started going over what he might say and how he might say it…

"Hello?"

…and then it all flew out the window.

"Kid!" Italy almost shouted. "Kid, it's you! Ve~ I'm so happy you're there I could burst! It's just so good to hear from you!"

"Italy?" said Kid. "It's good to hear from you as well, but why are you calling at this time of night?"

"Ve~ I wanted to talk to you," said Italy. "Germany told me what you did for me, how you brought in a witch to heal some of my injuries, and I wanted to be able to thank you for it. So… you know, um… thank you!"

"You're very welcome, Italy," said Kid, and from the tone of his voice it was obvious that he was smiling. "I'm sorry I couldn't convince Ms Diehl to heal your arms as well: I don't think she likes it very much when people take advantage of her abilities, especially after what happened in Baba Yaga Castle."

"Hmm? Ve~ What happened in… what's Baba Yaga Castle?"

Kid sighed.

"Look," he said, "it's a long story. I really don't want to bore you with all the details and-"

"No, Kid, I want to hear!"

"But-"

"Ve~ Please can you tell me? Please?"

"Maybe some other time," said Kid. "I'm very sorry, but I've just returned from a long and rather exhausting outing and I want to let Father know what happened. I'll talk to you later, alright?"

It was Italy's turn to sigh.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Hey, there's no need to be like that," Kid told him. "I don't want to tell you what happened because I know you'll only end up getting upset."

"Does it have something to do with why you didn't write to me for three months?" asked Italy. "You don't have to worry, I'm not angry at you! I mean, I was kinda afraid something horrible had happened to you, but since you're a meister and all, that's kinda to be expected, isn't it? You fight with demon weapons, something's bound to happen! Especially if you find something asymmetrical, you just grind to a halt!"

"Well… yes," Kid replied, "it does have something to do with that. Look, I'm very sorry, but I have to go. I'll call you again later, alright?"

"Ve~ okay, but just so you know, I'm at Germany's place right now so you'll have to call his number instead of mine."

"Very well, I'll make sure to remember that."

"_Ciao_, big brother!"

"…_Ciao_, Italy."

He put the phone down again.

It was always nice to talk to Kid, even if it was only for a couple of minutes. He only wished that it could have lasted for longer. He understood that Kid would have a lot going on, being a Grim Reaper and all, but if he had time to get a witch to heal him, wouldn't he at least have time to talk?

Never mind.

At least it had distracted him for a few moments.

He buried his face in his hands, unable to stem the fresh flow of tears that poured down his cheeks.

* * *

"Hey Iggy, have you been up all night?"

England didn't look round.

"So what if I have?" he asked. "I fail to see how it would have any kind of personal effect on you. Why, did you have bad dreams without me there to be your human teddy bear?"

"What? No!" said America indignantly, as though he were child accused of stealing cookies. "Nah, I was just curious, that's all. Nothing wrong with that. What the hell have you been doing which kept you from goin' to bed? You haven't gone all insomniac again, have you?"

"Of course not," England said as he turned to face him, "I was simply… um…"

He trailed off, the familiar poison of distraction tainting his mind.

It was clear that America had just come out of the shower. He had pulled on a pair of jeans, but his body was still soaking wet and shining like a precious metal in the light of the early morning sun. He had a towel draped around his shoulders which was catching the water that dripped from his sodden hair, which clung like glue to his forehead and round, adorably confused face.

"What?" he asked. "You were simply what?"

England slapped himself, forcing his mind back onto the topic of discussion.

"I was simply researching weapon abilities on the internet," he explained, "and considering myself very fortunate that we were able to find a hotel with Wi-Fi."

"Hell yeah!" said America. "Gotta love the internet, baby! I just wish the walls in this place could've been thicker; I barely got a wink of sleep last night with Russia and China goin' at it right next door."

"I know," said England, "I could hear them from here. Bloody wankers couldn't even keep it in for one night, could they?"

He turned back to his laptop.

"What were you lookin' up weapons for?" asked America as he walked over.

"Well," said England, "I discovered that the training of weapons and the meisters that wield them began at some point during the 12th or 13th century, with the founding of the DWMA, and I would most definitely appreciate it if you could avoid dripping all over my laptop."

"Oh, sorry." America stepped back and rubbed his head vigorously with the towel.

England got up with a sigh.

"Come here, you idiot," he said, taking the towel from the other man's hands. "You can never do it properly, you always remain absolutely saturated."

He started to rub America's head with the towel, making sure to dry every last strand of dusty blonde hair to a lethal shine, trying to ignore when Nantucket sprang back into position with a small audible _twang_ and flicked water into his face. When he was done, he draped it back around his neck.

It was quite unnerving how his brilliant blue eyes never left his face for a single second, and even stranger was how the shorter blonde didn't seem to mind one single bit…

"Th-There," England stammered. "Um… would you like to look at…"

He indicated his laptop with a thumb.

"Oh, y-yeah," said America. "Yeah, sure."

England sat back down in his chair and America leaned over him, causing the smaller man to blush no end and pray it wasn't seen.

"A-As I was saying," he said as he tried to get his tongue back into the right position. "The DWMA was founded at some point in the 12th or 13th century from what I can gather, although all the sources I've found just say that it was established around 800 years ago."

"Gee, that sounds helpful," America said sarcastically.

"You're telling me," England commented. "Apparently, it was after the defeat of the first kishin, although I'm still not exactly sure what manner of creature a kishin is. See, what concerns me about this is that I'm rather sure that you – that is, the United States of America as a country or just you as a person – didn't exist until around four or five hundred years ago, because this means that the Death Weapon Meister Academy, to use its full name, was already a part of you long before you were born."

"And?"

England sighed.

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" he asked. "As far as I can see, the DWMA is where almost all the people in the world who have weapon powers eventually end up! And I doubt that many of them would bother to leave once they were acclimatised to your country! Can't you even tell where I'm going with this? Yours is most likely the population with the highest density of demon weapons out of all of us!"

America shrugged.

"So?" he asked.

This time, England stood up.

"America," he said flatly, "I think you may be a weapon."

* * *

**BUM BUM BUUUUUUUUUH!**

**Oh goodness! Will Italy ever recover from the horrific actions of his elder brother? Will Romano try to repent and make attempts at apologies? Will Germany pluck up the courage to tell everybody else about his weapon abilities? Will these two ever get over themselves and just make out already? Is America going to be the next to unveil some blade-related badassery? Is he going to keep England distracted and prevent him from finding out yet more about these powers that could potentially rock not only their world, but the ENTIRE friggin' world? Will the focus ever shift to any of the other characters? Do any of _them_ have weapon powers? Will Kid go to Italy and try to comfort him in his time of need? Is the author ever going to stop this silly 60's Batman shtick and actually say something of some relevance?**

**...**

**I'm sorry, I had to.**

**Let's see if I can finish Quantum of Solace without falling victim to writer's block. Just a note: the statement itself means 'a little bit of peace'. The story has nothing to do with James Bond.**

**Although it would be pretty awesome if it did, right?**

**He'll be upset if you don't review. You'll try to make 007 happy, won't you?**


	5. A Less Conventional Painkiller

"…mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmph…"

"Still nothing?"

"Nope."

"Keep trying, you must have something."

America closed his eyes and screwed up his face, concentrating with all of his might. His hands curled into fists so tight that his nails almost drew blood from his palms, and his shoulders arched upwards as his entire body became tense and stiff with force. Any person who entered the room at that moment would probably suspect that he was about, putting it bluntly, to shit himself.

All of a sudden, he exhaled heavily and relaxed his body.

"Iggy, this is pointless," he complained. "I mean, your theory makes sense and all, but we've literally been doing this _all day_ and I still haven't changed into a weapon! Anyway, what would I even be? A gun or a sword or a mace or a-a cannon? Actually, that would be pretty goddamn awesome, but you get what I'm saying, right?"

England sighed.

"I never thought I would say this to the likes of you," he said, frustration clear as it ever was, "but you're right."

"Great!" cried America. "Can I put a shirt on now?"

"Very well, so long as it's something tasteful."

He sighed again, this time in secret relief, as the younger and more excitable man left the room in search of clothes.

It had been such a fantastic breakthrough. Not just that, it made perfect sense! The DWMA was a part of America, so with all of those people with weapon abilities in his population, wouldn't it only be logical if he himself was therefore one of them? So England had asked him to attempt a transformation right there and then – even a partial one such as that which they had seen on Germany the previous night would have been _something_ – just to see if it could be possible. He had been so excited about the prospect of possible weapon abilities that he didn't bother telling America to get dressed after his shower.

Another day wasted. The sun was now beginning to sink low in the sky, tainting the edges just above the horizon the colour of a topaz, and the clouds were dyed pink like candy floss. It was quite a view from the ninth floor.

'It's the hotel,' he assured himself. 'It's not like I think Berlin is a nice place or anything. It's just this bloody hotel.'

"Enjoying the view, dude?"

"GAH!" England jumped nearly a foot into the air. "For goodness sake, America, can't you cough or say excuse me or anything else which would avoid startling me? It's only polite!"

"Man, you're uptight," said America as he collapsed onto the sofa next to the smaller man. "I'm just as pissed off as you are, you know. Do you know how awesome it would be to be able to turn into a weapon? What if I could do it partly and I could get blades comin' out of my arm like Wolverine or-or a blade comin' outta my foot so I could castrate people just by kicking them? Or maybe I could turn my fingers into gun barrels and-"

"According to some rather credible sources," England interrupted, "there are some weapons which can only transform completely or not at all – mostly the smaller ones like knives or guns. Only large weapons like spears or scythes can accomplish partial transformations. Besides which, we aren't even certain about this, are we? For all we know, you might not even be a weapon!"

"Nah, I gotta be!" said America. "I'm awesome, weapons are awesome, it's totally a winning combination!"

England pinched his brow.

"Why do I always end up hanging around with you?" he wondered aloud.

"'Coz I'm… _cute?_"

"What?! No, don't be absurd!"

"Then why are you blushing?"

"I'm not!"

"Yes you are, you're redder than a red thing!"

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

"Yeah it does, 'coz I'm the one who said it!"

"Ugh, you're ridiculous," England groaned. He stood up and started examining the room service menu, saying, "I could seriously use a cup of tea."

"Hey, if you're getting something from room service, could you get me some-"

America stopped abruptly.

"Some what?" asked England. "America, is something wrong?"

The younger man was staring out at the scenery.

"I think a person just flew past the window," he said flatly. "Kinda looked like a guy on a hovering snowboard or something."

This time, England facepalmed so heavily at America's stupidity that he almost gave himself a concussion.

* * *

Italy hadn't intended to spend the entire day in this room, lying in Germany's bed, but that was what had happened. Somehow his legs had failed him and he was unable to move beyond occasionally talking to Germany when he came in to give him food or water or to check that he was alright.

He wasn't, but that was to be expected. Neither was he hungry. He hadn't been in the mood for food since he left the hospital.

He thought back to the last time something similar to this had happened. That time, however, it had been him _causing_ most of the damage, not receiving it. Well, both actually. In a rather complicated way. And immediately afterwards, he had suffered under the most fearsome rant that could ever have existed on the face of the earth.

Thinking back, with what he had said, he probably had it coming.

"_Kid… help me, I-I just- I didn't… I didn't know what else to do, I… h-he was going to… is-is he dead?"_

How could he have been so foolish as to say something like that?

"_Yes. Yes, Italy. He is dead. D. E. A. D. Dead. You have battered him so much that even his soul has dissipated. He has passed on. This man is no more. He has ceased to be! He has expired and gone to meet his maker! He is a late. Person! He's a stiff! Bereft of life! He rests in peace! If he weren't still lying here soaking into the carpet he'd be pushing up daisies! _He's rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible!_ THIS! IS AN _EX! PERSON!_"_

Yes. He had that coming. Italy knew now that he deserved every word that was screamed in his direction.

And who knows? Maybe he _had_ done something to upset Romano and just hadn't realised it at the time. Something that warranted a punishment he would never be able to forget for the rest of his life, however long that may be.

Then there was the other time when he had dared to show weakness. The scars on his arm were still there, reminding him of how stupid and cowardly he had been. Once there was a time when he declared that they were a symbol of his strength, showing that he was powerful enough to survive such a fearsome attack and therefore could do anything if he put his mind to it. What had he been drinking on that day?

Yes. Maybe it was his fault. For being weak and unable to fight back. For thinking he could trust Romano, or anyone for that matter. Trusting someone not to hurt him: how idiotic was that?

He could hear Prussia making a racket downstairs. _He_ definitely trusted other people.

Idiot. Betrayal was inevitable.

Especially since there were people he was so close to. It would only be more painful.

And what about everyone else? What if they were only doing this because they felt like they had to? England called it… obligation, that was the word. It wasn't like anybody did anything because they _cared_ about him.

But what about Germany? And Kid? Surely they cared about him, right?

Right?

Or what if they were just pretending? Yes, that was more likely. They didn't care about him. It was just an act. Sooner or later they would turn on him, just like Romano did before them. If Kid truly cared about Italy, wouldn't he have healed his arms as well?

There was noise coming from downstairs that didn't sound like Prussia. Germany was shouting about something and someone else was replying, but it didn't sound like anybody Italy had ever met before. Well, maybe it was a little like Kid, but surely Kid's voice was higher than that. Although it had been several months since he'd seen him, so-

The door opened.

Italy didn't move. Didn't even look to see who it was. There was no way he would be able to trust them.

"Italy…?"

What? That was- it had to be!

He looked.

The previous time he had laid his eyes on Death the Kid (several months ago, come to think of it) he had been… well, long story short, a kid. He looked absolutely adorable in his impeccably neat business suit, his face still bore the roundness of youth and his eyes, although stern, still glittered with intense determination and ferocity. He was anything but tall.

To say that he had changed would be a massive understatement. He now stood almost as tall as Italy was, if not exactly the same, and his face had become much more angular and adult-looking. His eyes had become sharper and now bore little more than concentrated anger, but this could have been due to the circumstances of his visit. Even his hair had grown a little longer, and Italy could have sworn that his stripes had grown larger as well. He had traded his suit for a long white jacket which bore a crest of arms on each sleeve – a stylised skull, not dissimilar to the brooch he used to wear, above the word _SPARTOI_ – and overall looked quite a lot older than he had been on the last encounter that he had with the now near-catatonic nation. Also, he was panting. It was clear he'd had to run for part of his journey.

"Kid?" Italy breathed. "Is that- is that really you? You… oh my gosh, y-you look so… s-so much…"

"Italy," Kid sat down on the bed next to him, "are you alright? I want you tell me and be completely honest with me because I want to hear it from you and you alone: are. You. Alright?"

"What?" asked Italy. "Kid, I'm fi-"

"No you're not!" The young reaper grabbed Italy's hands, and the young man could have sworn that they had become warmer. "Italy, I talked to Germany. He says that you're not eating and that you've spent the entire day in bed staring at the ceiling. Forgive me, but that doesn't sound like something an alright person would do!"

With a small gulp, Italy pulled his fingers away.

"No," he muttered.

"No what?"

"No, I-I can't trust you."

He bowed his head and waited for a second angry outburst, but nervously continued talking when he didn't receive one, fresh tears trickling slowly down his face.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know you're going to hurt me. I can't trust you, Kid. I trusted Romano, my real big brother, and now look what's happened. I almost died because I trusted somebody and-"

"Please forgive what I'm about to do."

He raised his head, understandably confused at why Kid would say something as vague as-

_**THWACK**_

Very slowly, he turned his face back to that of the young reaper, rubbing his left cheek where it was now bright red.

"I can't remember the last time I heard you spewing such idiocy," said Kid, his voice dangerously quiet. "What in the world convinced you that because Romano and Romano _alone_ betrayed your trust, every other person close to you is going to follow the same route? Look at me, Italy."

He tried to avoid looking. He didn't want to see the fury burning in those two-toned golden eyes.

"I said LOOK AT ME!"

But it was hard not to when his face was gripped in strong lukewarm hands and wrenched to one side, forcing him to look right at Kid's pale adolescent face. It was only after a few seconds of observation that he realised something: there wasn't just anger there, but also dismay and disappointment.

"Italy," he said in a voice more solid than stone. "I would never betray you. Do you hear me? Never. To me, you are my little brother, in which case it is my job to protect you and keep you happy, and right now I am _FURIOUS_ with Romano for not doing that for you! I want you to listen when I tell you that you can trust me, alright? And not just me, but Germany as well. He's very worried about you, Italy. Everybody is. I swear on my life and on my father's life that _nobody is going to betray you_. Do I look as though I'm lying? Do I?"

Italy gulped fearfully.

"No," he muttered, "No, I-I guess not, but I can't-"

_**THWACK**_

"But nothing!"

Kid seized Italy's shoulders and looked him straight in the eye, but was unable to express his frustration beyond an exasperated sigh.

"I want you to tell me everything."

"Wha? But-"

"_Everything_ that happened on that night. Don't leave out a single solitary detail. And don't tell me I can just ask someone else what happened and don't say you don't remember. Tell. Me. Everything. I swear I will listen to every single word. I'm here for you, Italy. Please."

Was this normal now?

Did Kid always get this concerned for other people?

Maybe it was just Italy. Maybe it was just these special circumstances which had caused his big brother instinct to kick in. Maybe, just maybe, he _did_ care about Italy. At least a little.

"Okay," Italy whispered.

Kid took his hands again, perhaps to try to comfort him.

"It was just a normal night," said Italy slowly. "I was at home and I was cleaning up after dinner, and I was chatting on the phone to Mr America because he was wondering if I had come up with any new kinds of toppings for pizza that he could steal. He didn't even try to hide it; he just called me up and asked if he could steal some pizza toppings. I knew that Romano was out with Spain and I didn't think anything bad would happen to them. Like I said, it was just like any other night and there wasn't anything wrong. Nothing at all."

He pulled a hand out of Kid's and wiped some tears away.

"It was getting late by the time I finished," he continued, "and I ended the call with America at about half-past ten. I left the phone on the kitchen table because I didn't really think I'd need it again – Spain's always been really good with Romano and I knew that I could trust him. A-at least, I thought I could. I still don't know a thing about what happened while they were out together. Maybe… maybe Romano took a drug or someone spiked his drink because I know- I thought I knew he wasn't like that. He's hurt me in the past, like, to punish me for doing bad things and stuff, but I don't think his heart was really in it and I always forgave him because he's my big brother and I love him so much and I-"

"Calm down," said Kid soothingly. "You can stop if you like because I know this is hard for you, but you should keep going if you can. Trust me, you'll feel better once you're done."

Italy nodded, giving his 'big brother' a grateful little smile.

"I'm not sure what time Romano came back," he said, "just that it was earlier than I expected. I'd thought he was going to spend the night with Spain since they've been getting really close to each other since the Atlantis incident, but then there was this really big bang noise and when I went to see what it was, Romano was lying on the floor in the hall and the door was wide open. I was really scared because I thought he might be hurt, but there was a really strong smell on him like he'd been drinking too much so I… I just thought he was drunk. I closed the door and I helped him stand up, and that's when he… he…"

"It's alright," said Kid. "You can tell me what happened."

Italy sniffed.

"He grabbed me around the neck," he choked, indicating with a quivering hand, "and he started to drag me upstairs. I didn't want to fight him off because I was afraid that if I did I would only end up hurting him and he was in a really bad state as it was. I tried to pull his hands away from me, but he was too strong and I couldn't really breathe properly. H-he pulled me into his bedroom a-and he started to p-pull off all my clothes a-and I tried to tell him, I told him to stop an-and that I didn't want this, but he just kept telling me to shut up and he… he tied my hands up a-above my head w-with duct tape an-and he… he…"

He fell forward until the top of his head collided with Kid's chest, tears dripping off the tip of his nose and plummeting down onto the bedsheets as he clutched the young reaper's left shoulder with his only mobile (the right) arm, sobbing his eyes out.

"He… _did things_ to me…" he choked. "He did… _horrible_ things… I don't… understand… why… I mean, I-I know he was drunk, he didn't really know what he was doing, b-but… _he's my big brother!_ My BROTHER! I-Is-Isn't he supposed to p-protect me? T-to stop things like this f-from happening? A-and instead… instead, he… he…"

Kid's warmer hands meant that his hands on Italy's back were far more comforting than they had been the last time the two had embraced. Italy only wished that his arms weren't broken so he could throw them around his big brother like he had before.

"And then," Italy said in his quavering voice, "w-when it was over, h-he told me that I-I was dirty and I couldn't tell anyone, and then he fell asleep, but I couldn't sleep and I didn't want to because I knew I'd j-just have nightmares and I was awake the whole night, but when the sun rose I-I realised that I had to do something, so I got up and went downstairs and I called Germany and I told him what happened, b-but Romano found me just after I finished and he got really mad a-and then he picked me up and… he tried to kill me, Kid! My big brother stabbed me and left me to die! And he said he was sorry, bu-but I… I don't know whether I should forgive him or… or whether I… I should…"

He felt Kid clench a fist on his back.

"A-And I've been wondering," he moaned, "did I- did I do something wrong? D-did I do something to upset him or-"

"I don't want to have to hit you again," said Kid. "Twice was quite enough. Any more and the marks on your face would be disgustingly asymmetrical."

Through the mess of sobs and sweaty tears, Italy sniggered.

"You haven't changed so much after all," he said with a faint and nervous smile.

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

Italy pulled himself into an upright sitting position.

"Just look at you," he sighed. "You look so grown up. I'm not entirely sure if I should be calling you 'Kid' anymore."

"Trust me," said Kid, "I have a long way to go before that day comes."

Without asking any questions, he pulled Italy into another hug. He didn't need to ask if he wanted or needed it. He could tell just by looking at the man.

"Listen, Italy," he said, "I would really like to stay for longer because I see that you're in no fit state to-"

"Wha? You're leaving?!" cried Italy in horror. "No, no please, don't-"

"Like I just said," Kid interrupted, and he gently held Italy's arms so as to look him in the eye. "I want to stay. Really, I do. It's just that there's been a lot happening at the DWMA lately and I can't afford to miss any more of it than I have to. I swear I'll come to see you the moment I get the time, okay?"

"O-Okay," said Italy, "it's just that the last time you said stuff like this, I had to come and rescue you from a kishin."

"Well, I don't think that's going to happen this time," said Kid reassuringly.

"You promise?"

"Yes."

"Pinkie Promise?"

He held up his right hand, smallest finger outstretched, and Kid took hold of it with his own.

"My pinkie promises," he declared, half proud, half embarrassed. After a moment's hesitation, they did it with the other hand too (which was a little awkward seeing as Italy's left arm was still in a sling).

"In any case," said Kid as he got up, "I'm sure that Germany would be more than happy to comfort you."

"M-maybe," Italy muttered, trying not to let his blush be seen.

The teenaged reaper turned to leave.

"Kid?"

He looked back briefly.

"_Grazie_."

A smile spread across his face. He'd been practising for this.

"_Di niente_," he replied, and this time, Italy's face lit up like the first glow of the rising sun.

He sat there, staring in wonder at the now empty doorframe, until Germany entered the room.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Ve~ he was right," said Italy. "I do feel better after telling somebody what happened. A-and it's not just that."

He took his arm out of the sling and examined it, along with the other.

"My arms," he said. "They don't hurt anymore."

"You _what?_" Germany peered back down the corridor, but Kid had already disappeared from view and it wouldn't be worth pursuing him at this point. When he looked back, Italy had removed his sling and was gazing at his hands in wonder.

"They don't hurt," he muttered, as though he were trying to wrap his head around the situation, "they don't hurt, they really don't hurt…"

Germany re-entered the room and sat down next to him.

"Ve~ I feel like…" he said quietly, "…like a huge weight's been lifted off my shoulders. One that I didn't even know was there, and… well, I guess I-I'm just really happy my big brother could come to see me. Now I know for sure that he cares about me."

"And what about Romano?" Germany asked him. "After all of that, do you still believe that he is not at fault?"

"Well, I… I mean, I-I guess I… I…"

Italy tried not to look. He lowered his face. He didn't want his eyes to meet those of Germany, which were far too sympathetic, apologetic and lots more words ending in 'etic'. He didn't want it. He had promised himself he would get stronger and… and he…

"I don't know," he moaned. "I just- I don't know! I should hate him, I know I should hate him with all my might, because he did horrible things to me which I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to get out of my head, but he's my big brother and that means I should love him and respect him and… and… _I don't know what to think! I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!_"

He buried his face in Germany's chest.

"I…" he sobbed. "I don't know… how to deal with this…"

For the first time in days, he was able to properly wrap his arms around Germany and hug him the way he had so many times before. He never wanted to let go. He was terrified that if he did, he would lose him again.

"It's going to be okay," said Germany as he returned the embrace. "Just take it one day at a time. Didn't I promise you that you were going to be alright?"

Italy smiled into his companion's now-soaking shirt.

"Ve~ it's a little late for that now, isn't it?" he asked.

"_Nein_, it is not," Germany replied solidly. "I do not recall giving any specific time for you to make a complete recovery and I still cannot at this point. All I can say for certain is that you are safe, especially when you are with me."

"You'll protect me?"

"Of course. I would protect you to the ends of the earth."

"…_Grazie_."

"_Sie sind willkommen_."

* * *

"Stupid weapons."

America flopped down on his bed – or rather, the bed he had to share with England. The hotel staff had been a little too presumptuous when told that the group needed three two-person rooms, and they all had only one bed. Luckily it was large enough for two people, but only just. It seemed to have been intended for a couple who weren't afraid to touch each other.

"Stupid powers."

That had been a whole day. An _entire_ day spent standing in the middle of the room, scrunching up his face like he was trying to crap his pants while England stared at him, waiting for some kind of change.

And the worst part was that it hadn't made him uncomfortable.

"Stupid England," he complained to himself, "making me feel weird all the stupid time…"

He held his hand up and looked at it, almost as though he was hoping that if he stared at it for long enough it would turn into an axe head or a dagger's blade, or that his fingers would all turn into spikes and his whole arm would turn into a medieval flail. That would be completely and totally awesome, which of course made it all the more likely that it was never going to happen.

"Stupid Germany, having cool weapon powers when I don't know anything about 'em," he moaned to himself. "Why can't I be awesome for once? I'm the hero, ain't I?"

He allowed the arm to fall down over his face, shielding his eyes from whatever sunlight was left.

"This century," he muttered to himself. "It's sucking the hero outta me."

None of them had known what to expect of the 21st century, but it seemed that so far, everything was changing. There was new technology, new conflicts, new conspiracy theories springing up all over the place (the Y2K one had been rather embarrassing) and so far, America wasn't sure what to make of it.

The worst part that they were already over ten years in. He should have gotten himself together by now.

'This whole thing is stupid,' he thought. 'It's not like I can just think "turn into a weapon" and I'll just transform like _that_-'

Suddenly, he felt as though his whole body was zapped with electricity, shooting through his arms and legs and crackling at the ends of his fingers, and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was a blinding flash of pale purple light.

* * *

**Reader challenge because I'm in a good mood! Germany's light is dark orange when he transforms, and as you see above, America has pale purple. The challenge is: why are they these colours and not any other? I'll give you a hint as well - it's something to do with their flags.**

**Kid probably seems a bit cold here, but hey; it's Kid! What do you expect?**

**I know this chapter is probably a bit shorter than what you're used to, but I know that the next will definitely be satisfying now that we have _two_ nation weapons rather than just one - plus I know a lot of people will be happy that Kid's made another appearance - and because I'm a troll of a sort (not the kind who mocks RIP pages on Facebook, what kind of sick son of a bitch does that?) I'll let you in on another challenge:**

**There will be a third nation weapon.**

**Review if you want to find out who!**


	6. More Bumps In The Night

*_crash_*

The noise of shattering glass was sufficient to rouse Italy from his formerly peaceful slumber. At first he wondered why he had woken up, but when he heard thumping noises coming from downstairs and realised what was going on, the all-too-familiar poison of fear infected his mind like a disease.

"Germany?"

He gently shook Germany's shoulder, trying desperately to wake him up without making him too angry.

"Germany, wake up!" he whispered. "I think I heard a noise downstairs!"

"Mmph…" The larger man's eyes began to blearily open.

"Germany, thank goodness you're awake," said Italy. "I'm sorry I had to wake you up, please don't be mad at me!"

"Italy, what is wrong?" asked Germany, who had grown to become genuinely concerned when Italy woke him up in the middle of the night. "Did you have a nightmare again?"

"No, it's not that," Italy said fearfully. "I heard a crashing noise downstairs as though someone had broken a window. I think somebody's broke into the house and I'm scared!"

"Remain calm," said Germany, and he got up and out of bed, pulling (to Italy's understandable alarm) a pistol out from under his pillow. "I am going to investigate. In case this situation is dangerous, I request that you stay here and wait for me to return. Do not leave this room under any circumstances, do you understand?"

"_Si_. Please come back okay!"

Germany paused at the door.

"I will," he said. "I promise."

After checking that he had a full clip of bullets, he disappeared out into the corridor.

Italy was alone again.

'Please come back safe, Germany,' he thought, wondering if he could project his thoughts through the wall and down the corridor. 'I don't know what I'll do if you get hurt or die. Please be okay!'

He sat up and pulled as much of the covers as he could around his bare shoulders (Germany had insisted on him keeping his vest and boxers on if they were going to share a bed) hoping that the extra warmth would bring him some hope or comfort. He'd always thought that Germany's bedsheets were much softer and warmer than the ones he and Romano sometimes shared-

No. There was no way he was going to finish _that_ thought.

His eyes somehow fell upon the faint indentation that Germany's body had left in the mattress and the crease in the pillow where his head had once rested. Since he wasn't there, he wouldn't notice if Italy stole his side of the bed and laid down on his pillow, and found himself unable to resist burying his face in it.

It smelled of liverwurst and beer, carried with it the faint scents of boot polish, hair gel and fabric starch (which probably explained why he stood so stiffly all the time). There was also sweat from his workout sessions and expensive shampoo – only the best for _Bundesrepublik Deutschland _– and all these individual odours combined to make Italy wish that he could have this kind of opportunity all the time. First hand. That he could embrace Germany forever, bury his face in his hair and breathe in his wonderful scent-

Wait. Was that weird?

He didn't care. Even if the truth was weird, he wouldn't lie to anyone. Especially not himself. He didn't care that they had been enemies when they first met or that the big guy was almost permanently angry at him for some reason, although that had become rather toned-down recently: Germany was the most wonderful person he knew and had ever known in his whole life.

He pulled the pillow close and held it tightly, but it was no substitute for the real thing. Was he going to come back soon? He hoped so.

**BANG**

The crack of a gunshot cut through the silent air and shocked Italy out of his lovesick stupor. He scrambled out of bed and ran to the door, pressed his ear to it and waited for another sound, noting with disdain that his body was buzzing and trembling in fear.

What was going on out there?

**BANGBANG**

While his instincts and sense of obedience screamed in protest, Italy wrenched the door open and ran full-pelt down the corridor towards the source of the gunshots, which were rapidly increasing in frequency with every approaching step.

This was a familiar feeling. The need to see Germany. The craving to see his face and know that he was okay, despite the fact that he was almost certainly plunging himself into a situation he might not return from alive. The last time he had felt like this, he had been unable to walk away – Germany had to carry him out while his legs occasionally dripped blood onto the floor.

But he had been strong. That was the time he had felt truly powerful for the first time in his life. Maybe that feeling was going to return tonight…

He skidded to a halt as a bullet whizzed past his ear and quickly ducked back around the corner.

"Italy, what the hell are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay in the bedroom and wait for me!"

As he panted like a dog with heat stroke and tried to catch his breath, he looked across and saw Germany on the other side of the corridor, crouching in the cover of an overturned table (which for some reason was apparently not being deliberately shot at, despite it almost being thin enough to allow a bullet through). During the breaks between the onslaught, he would lean out and fire a shot or two down the corridor. Italy leaned forward to see who-

"Don't look!" Germany commanded.

He pulled his head back just in time to avoid having his hair curl severed by a flying bullet.

"Germany!" he cried. "Germany, what's going on?!"

"Thieves!" Germany replied. "Burglars, come to rob my house! It would appear they came prepared for a counter-attack!"

"Are you okay?!"

"So far, yes!" He leaned out and fired three more shots. "But I am going to run out of bullets very quickly at this rate!"

"Where's Prussia?!"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

He tried to crouch down and make his muscular body as small as possible as yet more bullets zoomed along the corridor.

"Why don't you come out?" shouted one of the assailants. "We're gonna go easy on you if you do!"

"You're gonna run out of ammo soon, buddy!"

"We got plenty over here!"

"Arrogant bastards," Germany growled, "starting a fire-fight in my own house. I cannot _believe_ this!"

Two more shots. Ten in return. As Italy watched, Germany fearfully checked his clip and saw that he had only three bullets left, his arms trembled as he slid it back in with a small click.

His arms…

Just like that, Italy got an idea.

"How many of them are there?" he asked. "Germany, how many burglars are there?"

"I am not sure," said Germany. "I think that there are five that are armed, several others who are not, and there could be others in the house that I do not know about. I was a fool, there is no way I could fight them all off by myself. Even if they cannot kill me, I would still be as good as dead!"

Italy gulped. Would this work?

"C-can you- do you think you could get over to me?" he asked, trying and failing to sound confident.

Germany's eyes flew from his gun to the smaller man.

"What is it, Italy?" he asked. "What are you planning?"

"I-I don- I don't know," Italy stammered. "I-I'm n-not sure if- if I can-"

"Hang on!"

As the smaller man slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, Germany dived across the corridor, firing two of his precious bullets and somehow evading those that were shot in his direction. He knelt down to be eye-to-eye with Italy and raised his head so their eyes could meet.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Italy, calm down!"

"I'm sorry!" cried Italy. "I'm so sorry, Germany, it's a stupid idea and it could never work, not against guys like this and I'm so scared and I'm an idiot for thinking we could use your powers like this and I really didn't think this through and this is just too much and I can't-"

"My powers? Italy, pull yourself together!"

His shout was enough to render the smaller man silent.

"Italy," Germany said calmly, "are you saying-"

He paused and leaned out to fire his final bullet at the intruders, hoping that they wouldn't believe he had run out.

"Are you saying that you want to be my wielder?" he asked.

Italy gulped.

"M-meister," he gasped. "The person who wields a demon weapon is called a meister. I-I don't know why, b-but that's what they're called and… and I was thinking, just for tonight- that j-just for right now, I-I could- I could be your-"

He wiped his eyes.

"It's a stupid idea," he said, "and I was stupid to think of it. I could never be a meister or anything like that, I-I'm never gonna be strong enough. I couldn't even fight off my own big brother, so how would I ever be able to do something- to do _anything_ like this?"

"Italy…"

Germany took his hand and held it tightly.

"I know that you are frightened," he said. "Believe me: I am too. This is asking rather a lot of you – perhaps more than you are mentally capable of at this moment – but right now, you need to be strong. I know that this may seem like a needlessly difficult challenge, perhaps even too difficult, but there is no possible way for either of us to fight them off alone. Are you listening to me?"

It was okay.

That's what went through Italy's mind. He was going to be alright. Germany was here with him. Everything was going to be okay.

"O… Okay," he muttered.

"Don't sound so defeated," said Germany. "If possible, I shall talk you through the fight. I just hope this works; I've never attempted a complete transformation before."

"Y-you can do it," Italy said in what was probably an attempt at a reassuring voice. "If a couple of human teenagers can transform completely, I'm sure you can!"

Germany smiled, but only briefly.

"You out of ammo, hero?" asked one of the robbers. "'Bout time!"

Doing his best to ignore the slowly approaching footsteps, the tall blonde closed his eyes and concentrated. Around half a second passed before his arm began to waver and glow in deep orange light, and for a moment it seemed like that was _all_ that was going to happen, but then the light spread to his whole body, and in seconds he was nothing more than a spinning blob of light and then…

Italy reached out and grabbed it.

"Oh, wow," he breathed. "Germany, it's… you're _beautiful_."

The spear was six feet long and shone even in the dim light from the windows, from the razor-sharp head all along the length of the handle and down the gems set into the hilt, just below the head: an obsidian stone, a ruby and a piece of amber, one on top of the other. Both the handle and the blade were flawlessly clean and smooth as silk – all that could be expected from a clean-freak like Germany – and Italy couldn't help but run his fingertip over the edge just to feel how sharp it was. The metal was warm to the touch and ever so slightly vibrated under his fingers. It was truly an incredibly amazing feeling.

"It's- this is amazing!" he cried ecstatically. "And I'm holding you without getting hurt which means our soul waves match! I- I really can be-"

"Dead?"

The unmistakable clicking of a gun caused Italy to slowly look to his left, at the man who was not only taller than him, but brawnier and far more muscular and aiming a handheld machine gun directly at his head.

"Good thing, too," he said, resting his other hand underneath for stability, "I'd hate to find out you were immortal or something."

Italy gulped and closed his eyes, waiting for the bullets to penetrate his skull and tear his brains asunder…

"Do something!"

The sound of Germany's voice cut into his mind and his hands twitched in shock, driving the blade of the spear deep into his attacker's fingers. The man screamed in pain and horror and the gun clattered to the ground.

Italy froze.

"O-Oh my-"

"Italy! Focus!"

Germany's voice was strangely tinny, as though he were speaking into a metal bowl or talking from the inside of a tin can, but it was loud enough to get Italy back on track. He looked down at the spear in his hands.

"Germany, are you okay?" he asked.

In the eerie mental world of blackness which was conjured by his weapon form, Germany rubbed his head and massaged some coherency back into his mind. Even though this place he now found himself in was completely dark, his body seemed to be illuminated by deep orange light. Also, he had misplaced his clothes – they appeared to have vanished into thin air. He could feel and hear what was going on beyond this odd realm, but was unable to see it: understandable, since a spear doesn't usually have eyes.

"This is a little strange," he admitted, "but I appear to have all of my body parts intact. Although I am now surrounded by darkness and my clothes appear to have vanished."

"Ve~ what do you expect?" asked Italy. "When was the last time you saw a spear wearing clothes? But Germany, I hurt this guy and I-"

"Good!" cried the weapon. "He would have killed you if you had not!"

The man in question was on his knees, clutching the hand which was gushing blood onto the floor. He glared up at Italy with eyes filled with hatred and started grasping for his gun.

"Fuck you, you little bitch," he snarled as he stood up, "I'm gonna fill your lungs with-"

Italy jabbed the spear upwards in a flurry of panic and the ridiculously sharp blade carved the gun in half, taking off two of his attacker's fingers in the process. He screamed in agony again and the sliced gun clattered to the floor again, this time sending bullets flying every which way.

"Germany," Italy moaned, "Germany, help me!"

"Remain calm," Germany commanded, "you're going to be fine. You have already incapacitated one, so let's work on eliminating the rest!"

"O-Okay," said Italy. "What should I do?"

"Render this one unconscious while he is on the ground. I do not care if you kick him or use the end of the handle, but accomplish it somehow!"

Without waiting for another second, Italy brought the end of the shaft down onto the man's forehead and removed him from the waking world. He gave him a kick in the back of the head as well, just to be sure.

"I did it," he reported, "he's- WAAAH!"

He screamed as three others came around the corner to investigate.

"What the- you're just a kid!" said one of them. "The hell is this? I'm not gonna kill a kid!"

"Then GO!" Italy shouted in terror. "Please, I don't want to hurt anyone else. Just drop any things you took and get out of this place!"

The man froze. He glanced at his fellows, who both shook their heads.

"Well, fuck that," he said, "I'm not gonna step back and let some dumbass tell me what to do!"

Italy froze.

His grip tightened on the spear, bowed his head and his teeth began to grind.

"What. Did you. Just call me?" he asked.

Too late, the robbers began to sense that they had made a mistake.

"I hate it when people call me stupid or dumbass," he muttered. "Okay? I… I hate it more than anything else."

He raised his head, revealing the fire now burning in his eyes.

"I _HATE IT!_" he screamed.

He slammed the central attacker in the centre of the forehead with the end of the handle and whacked him on the ear, sending him to the ground unconscious. Before the other two could react, he sliced their guns apart, kicked one in the chest (sending him flying backwards into a wall) and hit the other on the side of his head with the flat of the blade, smashing him into the nearest wall, and hit him with the end of the handle just to ensure he was unconscious.

"Italy!" cried Germany. "Control yourself!"

Italy couldn't hear him. He stepped out into the corridor, brandishing the shining weapon with obvious intent to kill.

"COME ON!" he screamed, practically glowing with fury. "BRING IT _ON!_"

He charged down the corridor and swung the spear towards the eight remaining robbers, one of whom tried to shoot him but found the gun knocked out of his hands and his side slashed open. He fell to his knees, groaning in pain and clutching his bloodied hip. Another tried to attack Italy from behind, but the enraged nation planted a foot in his groin and whirled around to hit him on the head and knock him out.

Six left.

"Italy, calm down!"

But Germany's plea fell on deaf ears. Italy was so furious that he hadn't even noticed the stitches burst on his chest or the slowly spreading red patch on the front of his vest. In his mind, the men who were raiding his BFF's house were distracted by _something_ which was allowing him to take them down like snowballs in front of a fire. He kicked, he punched, he head-butted, he elbowed, he kneed, he bit and he took full advantage of the spear in his hands, attacking with the handle, its end and the flat, edge and point of the blade.

Before he knew it, they were all down, but it couldn't be over yet. He had to punish them. He had to make sure they never called him…

Called him…

He couldn't hold out. His legs failed him and he would have completely collapsed if Germany hadn't returned to his human form and caught him as he fell, setting him on his knees.

"You fool," he chided the smaller man. "Part of fighting is knowing where to draw the line. If you go too far, you will end up hurting yourself! Just look! Look at your stomach!"

Rather than looking, Italy stared blankly ahead. His whole body was trembling under Germany's fingers.

"Why do you do that?" he asked. "What is it about a person insulting your intelligence that causes you to become so… berserk?"

Italy gulped.

"Romano," he muttered. "Only Romano can call me stupid."

He looked down and gasped in horror when he saw the spreading patch of crimson. There was no pain at all: the adrenaline still buzzing in his body had taken care of that. He wouldn't be able to feel a single thing until he had a chance to calm down.

"I'm so sorry, Germany," he choked, "I never meant to get so carried away, I-"

"It's fine," said the larger man. "What matters is that you won. You have escaped with your life, for which you should be tha…"

He trailed off.

Prussia was standing at the end of the corridor, stark naked, with a sandwich half hanging out of his mouth and a can of beer in each hand. He was staring blankly at the scene of chaos before him.

"Did I miff a parfy or fumfim?" he asked incoherently.

* * *

"Hey! Hey, kid!"

Italy looked up at the black-clad man who was being dragged into a nearby _Bundespolizei_ vehicle.

"You got guts, I'll give you that much," he shouted. "You kicked my ass from here to oblivion and for that, I respect ya!"

He was shoved into the car and silenced.

"Shut up, you _arschloch!_" Prussia shouted after him. "Hope you have fun getting' assraped in prison, you- oh."

He fell silent.

"I-it's fine," said Italy.

"No it's not," said the now fully-clothed Prussia. "Sorry about that, really. You okay, li'l guy?"

Italy didn't reply. He gingerly fingered the bandage over the freshly restitched wound in his stomach, which was on full display due to his lack of vest (he'd had to take it off due to bloodstaining). Aside from that, he seemed to be alright, but he didn't really know how to answer without burdening anybody with even more worry for him.

Something heavy and fabric was draped around his shoulders. Inspection revealed that it was the long blue coat Germany had brought with him into the hospital. The man himself sat down next to Italy on the edge of the open ambulance as the still-trembling meister pulled the warm, soft material around his body.

"_Grazie_, Germany," he said.

"You can keep it," Germany replied. "I never intended it for myself. Blue is your favourite colour, is it not?"

Italy nodded.

"Good," said Germany, "I almost bought a brown one."

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"How is your stomach?"

"Ve~ it feels so much better now I know my body parts aren't in danger of leaking out."

"I doubt that would have happened with a wound that size."

"Aw, come on, West!" cried Prussia as he sat – no, _crashed_ down on Italy's other side. "You never know what's gonna happen next when this cute little thing comes to visit!" He wrapped the hapless Italy in a headlock and started rubbing his hair with his fist. Italy yelped in laughter and pulled himself free.

"Italy! Germany!"

The pair looked up as England navigated his way through the departing police vehicles until he reached them. He was clutching something a foot long and wrapped in what looked like a pillowcase.

"And… you."

His face fell when he saw Prussia. The albino cheerfully flipped the bird at him and walked back into the house, whistling a happy tune. England sighed and averted his eyes.

"Are you two alright?" he asked. "From what I heard, it seems like World War Three erupted in this place."

"England, how come you're here?" asked Italy.

"France told me that Prussia called him and said there was some sort of battle here," England explained, "but he's having trouble with his leg and the last time I checked Japan was still trying to help him get up, so I came in his stead. Now would either of you mind explaining to me exactly what the _hell_ happened?"

Italy flinched at his yell and started to tremble again.

"I'll explain once we are inside," said Germany, placing an arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "It's beginning to get cold."

He led the two back into the house and through to the lounge room, where they all sat down around the coffee table. Italy threw his arms around Germany's chest and clutched him as though he was the most precious thing in the whole world, and didn't let go until the larger man had finished explaining everything that had happened that night, from being woken up by the breaking window to Prussia walking in on the aftermath of the fight and wondering if he'd missed a party.

"What I am wondering is the kind of party he has attended which would lead him to _that_ conclusion," he finished.

"Germany," said Italy, "I can't believe you told him and America about your powers! Weren't we going to keep it a secret just between us two and never tell anybody?"

"They didn't exactly leave me very much choice!" Germany pointed out.

"Interesting," England said thoughtfully. "So that was your first complete transformation?"

"_Ja_, that is correct."

"Good," said England, "so maybe you could help America."

"Huh?" said a confused Italy. "Ve~ why do you say that?"

"Because," England said as he laid the pillowcase on the coffee table, "long story short, he's stuck."

They stared at the cloth bag, waiting for something to happen.

"Well, go on!" England prompted. "Tip him out!"

Gingerly, as though he were afraid of what might occur if he touched it, Germany picked up the pillowcase by the corner and emptied the contents out onto the table.

"Wait," said Italy in confusion, "that's America?!"

It was a bayonet. The handle was bound in white and red string and the guard was deep blue, in contrast to the flawlessly shiny and practically audibly sharp blade which was around a foot-and-a-quarter long. Italy reached out to touch it, but withdrew his fingers out of fear of getting cut if he went anywhere near it.

"I'm assuming as much," England said with a shrug. "It started when I theorized that since the DWMA was situated in Nevada and therefore a part of him, it would only make sense that he would at least have some kind of weapon-related abilities, but he tried to transform all day and nothing happened. I was up all night researching on demon weapons, as well! I felt like a right plonker! But then when I went to bed, I expected to find America there already, but there was just this bayonet lying on the mattress. I didn't want to risk touching it – I read what happens if soul wavelengths are incompatible – so I stole one of the pillowcases and brought it here the moment I found a good excuse. The events of tonight seemed like a good excuse."

They all stared once more at the bayonet.

"America?" asked Italy. "Ve~ is that you?"

He knelt down on the floor and repeatedly poked the handle.

"America?" he said again. "America? America? America?"

"Will you stop that?" said Germany as he slapped Italy's hand away. "For all we know that could not even be-"

"_Uuuugghhhh…_"

All eyes flew to the knife. It was groaning.

"Oh man," it said in a tinny voice which bore a terrifying resemblance to that of America. "Dude, what was I drinking last… what… wha… WHERE AM I?! I-I saw a light, I-I saw this- this bright flash of this, like, really pale purple light and then I- it's all dark in here! Am I dead?!"

"America, relax," said England. "You're fine, you're not dead. You've just turned into a bayonet."

"A _what?!_"

"A bayonet!"

"What? No I haven't!" cried America. "Can't you see me? I mean, I can't see you, but I can see me, but everything else is black and I would've thought I'd gone blind, but I can see my body and there's this light an-and it's like, purple and my clothes are gone and- Iggy, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"

"GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF!" shouted Germany, ignoring the nagging part of his mind which was telling him he was yelling at a _knife_, a traditionally inanimate object.

The bayonet fell silent.

"That's Germany, right?" he asked nervously. "You're a weapon, right? Can you tell me what's going on? Why is it all dark? Why does it look like I'm glowing? I feel like I should feel like I'm floating, but I… oh fuck it, I'm scared, okay? I'm mega scared and I don't know what I'm supposed to do!"

"Just calm down," said Germany. "I experienced the same thing, so I must assume that it is normal. Your body has entered its weapon form and although I do not know a lot about this kind of thing, it could be safe to say that you are inside a mental world. And could you kindly refrain from panicking?"

America let out a fearful little moan, but seemed to have stopped screaming for the moment.

"Ve~ how did you get like this anyway?" asked Italy.

"I-I don't know," America stammered, and it was alarming to hear that his voice was so strained with fear that it was close to breaking point. "I was just- I was thinking about how it sucked that I couldn't turn into a weapon when Iggy was making so much sense 'coz he _always_ makes sense and I knew I couldn't just think 'turn into a weapon' and transform just like that, just like right now I can't just sit here and think 'turn into a human' and I'm gonna-"

A flash of pale purple light threw England, Germany and Italy backwards and sent them crashing to the ground. When they pulled themselves back up, America was lying spread-eagled on the coffee table, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Okay," he said flatly, "can somebody please tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?"

* * *

"You don't know?"

"_Nein_, I know next-to-nothing."

"Dude, on a scale of 1-10, how much do you suck?"

"America, don't be so rude," England chided him as though he were a disobedient son. "It isn't your fault if you don't know how to control your abilities and it's certainly not Germany's. Unless you forgot, we didn't even know about this kind of thing this time last year and we didn't know any of _us_ had been influenced until very recently!"

America made a noise which was halfway between a sigh and a growl – a grigh, maybe, or a sowl. Whatever it was, it sounded frustrated.

"Well, how did you find out?" he asked Germany. "Like, what clued you in that you had this… thing?"

"I am still not sure," said Germany. "I began to suspect that something was different when I was finally released from hospital, nearly two months following the Atlantis incident. Maybe it began when I woke up after violent dreams with my bedsheets shredded to ribbons: I know that I am not a sleepwalker and neither is Prussia, so I didn't know what was happening. Besides which, he is not the type to just cut up a blanket for no reason. After a few nights, I suspected that I may be in possession of weapon abilities, similar to the two young ladies who accompanied the teenage Grim Reaper, and then when I decided to test this theory on my body, well…"

He showed off his ability to convert his arm into a spear again, then turned it back and set it down.

"What, so it just… happened?" asked England.

"_Ja_," said Germany, "as far as I know."

"But I was trying all damn day!" cried America angrily. "I put literally every bit of effort into trying to turn into a weapon, but I didn't get squat!"

"I did not say that it was difficult!" Germany pointed out. "I was barely even thinking about it when it happened for the first time!"

"Pa… sta…" muttered Italy, who had dozed off on the larger man's shoulder.

England sighed and pinched his brow in exasperation.

"In any case," he said, "it's far too late at night to be discussing this right now and I've been awake for nearly two days straight now."

He and America stood up.

"You can see yourselves out?" asked Germany.

"What are we, stupid?" America demanded.

"I'm not even going to flatter that question with a reply," said England, and he seized the younger man by the top of his ear and started to drag him away.

Germany waited until he heard them leave.

He slipped his arms under Italy's back and legs and picked him up as gently as he could. It was giving him déjà vu. He had lost count of how many times he'd had to carry the fool out of trouble.

At least this time Germany wasn't digging a bullet out of his skull.

He carried him up to his room, laid him on the bed and pulled the covers over them both. Italy wrapped his arms around him, muttering something about tomatoes, and Germany couldn't help but return his hug.

"What am I going to do with you?" he whispered.

* * *

**D'awww...**

**So yeah, I know a lot of you were probably speculating as to what the hell America's weapon form could be, and congratulations to Rubellite Game for guessing correctly! Plus Germany's weapon form is revealed in this chapter - it was originally going to be revealed at the end of Draw a Circle, but I had to cut that bit to get that chapter down to 500 words, and after that I went through everything I'd already written and changed 'spear' to 'weapon' and removed every mention of it for the sake of hiding that particular little snippet of info. Please let me know if I missed any bits.**

**And yes, the colours of their souls are in fact the colours of their flags all mixed together, so well done to all of you who were clever enough to figure that out.**

**However, I can safely say that in regards to the identity of the third nation weapon, not a single person so far has guessed correctly.**

**Na na nana na.**

**Leave a review if you want to guess!**


	7. Time Out

"What's this one from?"

"Opium Wars. This one is from 1859: I was helping with barricades in Baihe River when England's troops blew them up-aru. Piece of iron shrapnel went through my shoulder."

"Must have hurt, da?"

"What you expect? My turn: where'd you get this one-aru?"

"This? The revolution, 1917. I was mistaken for member of Tsar's family and shot. I survived though. That particular assassin wasn't very good at aiming."

"You're telling me-aru. The wound's on your _hand_."

"My turn! How about you tell me where you got this one, da?"

"Ah, that. Boxer Rebellion. One of the rebels thought I was Christian and tried to stab me to death with a _jian_-aru. I have others elsewhere, including one which I'm not showing anybody."

"Why not?"

China's face flushed the colour of his flag.

"It's embarrassing-aru," he stated simply. "And anyway, I got a tattoo because it was the only way to hide it, so even if you wanted to see it, you don't have a chance."

"So that's why you have a panda on your _zadnitsa_!" Russia said in happy satisfaction. "I was wondering why you would have it there, of all places!"

"Sto-stop laugh- aiyah!" China's face grew even redder as his companion giggled innocently. "I-In any case, it's my turn, so can you please stop laughing for a moment-aru?"

Russia finished giggling and instead gave the smaller man a friendly smile.

'Damn,' China thought, 'why does he have to be so _cute?!_'

"Well, anyway," he said, trying to regain what little composure he had left. "Do you have any m… what's that one?"

He pointed at a faint pink line on the big man's chest which was only just visible, poking out through the bottom of the left sleeve of Russia's vest. Maybe it was a mistake though, as the mammoth nation pulled one of the hanging ends of his scarf around to cover his shoulder and hide the scar.

"I-I don't like to talk about that one," he said, smile officially faded as he shuffled around to face in another direction. "Is painful."

"Oh, come on," China said pleadingly. "Please? I'm curious-aru."

"_Nyet_, I don't want to!" He turned away and sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the left side of his chest protectively. When China moved to comfort him, he shied away as though afraid that the hand would sting him.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I-I really am, but… I just- I don't like to talk about this one. It's private and really painful, da?"

China sat back on the bed.

This was new. Discussing the multiple scars they had accumulated over the years and their respective origins was one of the ideas that Russia himself had come up with as a means of distracting China from the unavoidable darkness of the night, and they would do so until they fell asleep. And _this_ was the one that he was personally afraid of talking about? _This _was the one that made him uncomfortable?

Wow.

Just… _wow_.

Thank god the phone rang when it did. That moment couldn't have become any more awkward if it was trying. Since it was obvious that Russia wasn't in any mood to answer it, China snatched up the receiver.

"Room 853," he said, "can I help you-aru?"

"The reception desk has a call for a Mr Ivan Braginsky from a Ms Natalia Arlovskaya," said the young woman on the other end of the line.

China lowered the receiver from his face.

"Russia," he said, "would you mind accepting a call from a certain Ms Arlovskaya?"

Russia froze.

"Y-you mean…" he stammered.

"I'm very sorry," said China to the receptionist as the bed he was sitting on swayed about and rose several centimetres off the floor. "He is unable to take calls at this moment-aru. He is… um…"

"I'm in shower, da?" said the voice that was now coming from under the bed. "Tell her I'm in the shower or something."

"Yes, in the shower," China reported.

"Wait! No, I change mind! D-don't say I'm in shower! It'll make her worse because then she'll fantasize about me!"

"Tell me about the scar on your chest and maybe I'll change story-aru," China snapped at him bitterly.

"O-Okay, fine! Say I went out or something!"

"Good," China said, ignoring how the bedframe shifted underneath him, and to the receptionist he said, "My mistake. He went out few minutes ago and I'm not sure when he'll return-aru. Please tell Ms Arlovskaya he is unavailable."

"Very well," said the receptionist. "I apologise for the disturbance. Enjoy your honeymoon, ma'am."

As quickly as his mind would let him – that is, with barely any speed at all – the Oriental nation lowered the receiver and placed it on the phone, understandably miffed at what had just been inferred. The bed rocked back and forth as Russia emerged from underneath and poked his head back into view.

"She's gone, da?" he asked.

"Da," China replied. "You can come out now."

His companion sighed heavily in relief and collapsed onto the bed, then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

"Alright," he said in a defeated voice. "You win, China. I owe you now, so you win. I'll tell you."

But he was definitely reluctant. China could tell from his tone. He lay down next to him and cuddled his thickly-muscled body.

"It's okay-aru," he whispered soothingly. "There's no rush. Just take your time-aru. We've got all night, after all."

* * *

Now that his house wasn't being raided by uzi-wielding robbers, Prussia considered that the night was rather peaceful. In fact, it was too peaceful. The sound of the shower wasn't anywhere near loud enough for his liking.

"I am he as you are he as you are me," he half sang, half wailed into his hairbrush (he was an awesome singer, the sooner you accept it the better), "and we are all together…"

Air punching. Epic kung-fu kicks. General all-round awesomeness. Strike an epic pose!

"See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly!" he shouted, his heels spinning effortlessly on the water-slicked floor of the bath.

"I'm _crying…_" he faux-moaned.

Mime drum playing. Punch the air. Almost hit shower head. Regret it.

"Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come," he sang, even in the full knowledge that he sounded like a complete and total lunatic. Who cared? He was having fun and being awesome at the same time! "Corporation nana, nanana… _fick_, I forgot the words, um… nanana face grow long…"

Strike a pose.

"I am the eggman!"

Awesome pose!

"They are the eggmen!"

Most epic pose in the history of mankind!

"I AM THE WALRUS!"

Play the air guitar. Slip and fall. Hit head on edge of bath. Come round a few seconds later, perfectly fine of course.

Prussia sniggered.

"_Ja_," he said, ignoring the pain in the back of his skull as he got up, "I'm awesome."

He turned off the shower, rubbed himself over with a towel and pulled on a fresh set of underwear.

"…nana nanana…" he muttered as he started to walk back to his room, "nana nanana… nanana walrus… boo-boop be-doo."

He paused when he passed his brother's door and backtracked a little to spy on him, shoving a fist into his mouth to keep himself from squealing too loudly at the scene before him.

Germany and Italy were lying in bed together, wrapped snugly in each other's arms, and both were sound asleep as far as Prussia could tell from this angle. Surely, if there was a sweeter and more unbelievably adorable sight on this earth, he had yet to survey it.

But he couldn't help but notice that the bedsheets weren't covering them completely – West must have forgotten to pull them up. Either that or he couldn't move to reach them with Italy holding onto him like that, which actually made the situation even cuter than it already was. So the albino tiptoed into the room, reached down and took hold of the covers-

"_Ich kann nicht schlafen_."

He froze.

"Wha…" he tried to say.

"I cannot sleep," Germany repeated, this time in English. "Every time I try, there is something preventing me. My body is exhausted, but my mind is functioning perfectly and keeping me awake. For some reason, I cannot seem to stop thinking."

This was probably going to be a pretty deep conversation, so Prussia sat down on the edge of the bed as gently as he could – his brother may have been awake, but Italy was peacefully (and adorably) snoozing.

He glanced at the clock. It was almost 3am.

"Watcha thinkin' 'bout?" he asked.

Germany gently stroked Italy's hair, carefully avoiding the little curl.

"Mostly?" he said. "About him. About the way he fought tonight. Never in my life have I seen such a potent blend of terror and fury. Perhaps if I had not stopped him when I did, his wound would have become so much worse and he would have caused his own destruction. And I know I was able to prevent it this time, but what if there comes a moment where he is beyond hope and he fights himself to death? Or worse, what if he is killed by forces outside his abilities?"

He drew the slumbering Italy closer and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"I love him to the ends of the earth and beyond," he whispered, "but I do not think I have to tell you how much I fear for him sometimes."

Prussia smiled.

"He is a bit hopeless, huh?" he asked. "Probably doesn't even know what love is. I guess Romano didn't help, either."

"It's not just that," said Germany. "Although it is definitely a major contribution. I feel as though I am caring for a small child who has been rescued from a torturous parent and has never known anything different. I swear he has nightmares every single night now and there is nothing I can do to prevent them, because when he is sleeping he is whimpering and moaning and when I wake him up, he simply cries himself back to sleep. I can't remember the last time I felt so helpless!"

As if on cue, Italy's eyelids fluttered and he muttered something incoherent, but he didn't awaken. Germany sighed in relief.

"Trust me," said Prussia, "I know all about sleep-talking kids."

His younger brother eyed him questioningly.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" said the albino happily (perhaps because he was going to be able to listen to his awesome voice). "There was this one day – must've been in the late 1810s, maybe early '20s – I went round a battlefield looking for some awesome weapons to steal, but instead I found a kid. A boy, probably not a teenager yet, and he was adorable. Seriously, I can't even tell you how cute this kid was. He was on par with Italy, that's how damn cute he was. And I was really sad 'coz thought he was dead 'coz, you know, it's a battlefield and all and I got feels from when I was a kid on the battlefield (all those times I could've ended up in that situation) but I checked him and get this: he was still alive!"

Germany said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"So I thought he had to have been a nation or something, 'coz no normal human could survive what he'd been through, and I took him back to my place to get him fixed up, but he was ultra-super-mega-sick and had a fever you could fry eggs on. Kept mumbling in his sleep 'bout how he needed to survive, how there was someone waiting for him who he needed to get back to and how much he loved 'em, and sometimes he just woke up screaming like he was under attack. I tried to comfort the poor little guy, but he was scared as hell and he didn't know where he was: he blubbered like crazy and made me feel damn helpless. Managed to get a name outta him one time that happened, but it was way too long and there was no way I was gonna remember it. The only bit I ever remembered from whatever he said was the word 'German' so you can figure out what I decided to call him, can't you?"

Still there was silence, but shock and comprehension was spreading across the younger man's usually stoic features.

"When he finally came out of it, the poor guy had no idea who the hell he was or what was going on. Whatever he'd been through had messed him up pretty bad, so you know what I thought? I thought 'This kid needs someone to show him how to be awesome, like a big brother or something' and I took him in. And I thought that since he was such a wreck when I found him, he'd grow up to be a complete mess and I'd have to bail him out of everything with my awesome skills, but actually…"

His smile grew wider.

"He grew up to be almost as awesome as I am," he said.

This time, Germany smiled in return.

"_Danke_," he said. "Really, I mean it. But I fear that I may now outrank you in what you call 'awesomeness'."

"Oh yeah?" asked Prussia incredulously. "Ha, that'll be the day!"

"I will show you if you like."

"Go ahead! I bet you aren't as awesome as- why are you lifting up your arm?"

Once his arm was fully (and carefully) raised, a wash of deep orange light signalled the conversion of Germany's arm into the spearhead that had become familiar to him over the past half-a-year.

Prussia almost fell off the bed.

"Wha…" he gasped. "H-huh… b-but you… I… y-you… w-wha-"

The arm returned to normal and Germany laid it over Italy's shoulders, thankful that he hadn't woken up.

"It is a rather long story, the details of which are a little unclear," he stated, "and I do not believe that now is the time to tell it."

"O-Okay, but how come you didn't tell me sooner?" Prussia demanded, careful to keep his voice as low as possible to avoid awakening Italy. "West, how long have you known about… _that?!_"

"Around seven months."

"Seven mo- _why the hell didn't you tell me?!_"

"I was worried about how you would react!" Germany said defensively. "And all you are doing at this moment is proving my fears to be completely and totally appropriate!"

It was Prussia's turn to fall silent this time.

"Does he know?" he asked eventually, indicating Italy.

"How do you think he was able to defeat the intruders so easily?" asked Germany. "But when I am completely transformed, all I can do is advise him on how to fight, and it did not work out so well for the attackers once his intelligence was insulted."

Prussia whistled appreciatively.

"No wonder he was so good at kicking those guy's asses," he said.

"_Ja_, I know, but…"

Germany stroked Italy's hair, wistfully gazing at his face. Italy twitched his nose and snuffled, but didn't still didn't wake up.

"I still could not avoid feeling useless," he confessed. "It would appear that occasionally, when the most vital of moments arrive, I cannot avoid being utterly inadequate."

He closed his eyes and gently leaned forward so that his forehead made contact with Italy's.

"You really love him, don't you?" asked Prussia.

There was no reply.

"I guess you'd be way better for him than Romano," he commented. "Wanna do him the way I taught you, right?"

"You did not teach me anything," said Germany bitterly. "It was only that one time. And we were both drunk. And in any case, it is disgusting that you would ever say something so distasteful about-"

He stopped talking.

Italy had started to moan in what sounded like fear and writhed and twitched in the Aryan's grip, but his eyes remained tightly closed even as cold sweat broke out on his forehead and tears trickled out from under his eyelids. It was plain to see that he was having a horrible nightmare.

"Nnnmph…" he moaned. "Nn… no… no, please… no… _no_…"

"Is he-?" said Prussia.

"_Ja_," said Germany. "Italy? Italy, wake up!"

"No," Italy muttered, "please… it hurts… Romano, please stop! Nnnh… no, please…"

The two brothers shared a glance and realised they were both thinking exactly the same thing.

"_ITALY!_" they shouted as one.

Italy woke up. His eyes darted fearfully around the room as he panted uncontrollably and tried to catch his breath, finally slowing down as his darting eyes came to a rest on the features of the man who was holding his body and keeping him safe from harm.

Then, without warning, he buried his face in Germany's well-toned chest and cried his caramel-coloured eyes out.

Germany just looked at Prussia as if to say 'This is what I was talking about, see?'

"It's okay," he whispered soothingly as he turned back to the traumatised nation, "it was just a dream. It's over now, you're safe. You're safe with me. It's okay. There's nothing to be afraid of. It's okay."

Italy couldn't reply through his mess of anguished sobs.

"Ssh," said Germany, "it's going to be alright."

It was futile. There was nothing he could do to comfort Italy in his moment of need, and perhaps worst of all, he and Prussia knew it.

After a while, Italy's anguished sobs began to grow quieter and less frequent, his body less tense under Germany's arms, until eventually he had fallen silent and returned to sleep once more.

"You should go to bed," said Germany. "It would be best that you should try to sleep, even if I cannot."

In any other situation Prussia would have come out with a witty comeback to being told what to do, but considering these circumstances, he thought it best to simply obey, after remembering what he had come for in the first place and pulling up the covers over his little brother.

"_Guten nacht, bruder_," he said as he was leaving.

"I wish it could be," Germany sighed.

As he left the room and made his way towards his own, Prussia heard a second round of crying emanating from his little brother's bedroom.

But this time, it wasn't Italy.

* * *

America sat up.

He was restless. How could he sleep knowing what had happened not too long ago?

"Hey, Iggy?" he said to the man who was lying in bed next to him. "Are you awake?"

There was no reply. England was fast asleep, which was probably what could be expected after he pulled an all-nighter and made himself stay awake for the whole day. He thought himself intellectually superior to America, but sometimes he could be almost equally as stupid.

With nothing better to do, America stared at his hands.

"I'm a weapon," he muttered under his breath, still trying to wrap his head around the revelation. "A weapon. I'm really a weapon, that's so awesome!"

A quick check proved that he hadn't woken up England, but a muffled thumping noise from out in the corridor caught his attention and he leapt out of bed to investigate, despite his horror-movie-trained instincts screaming at him _not_ to check out the source of the mysterious noise unless he wanted his body parts to end up on meat hooks.

Just before he reached the door, he heard a very distinct and angry scream from outside:

"_MERDE!_"

He wrenched the door open.

As he had expected, France was sprawled on the ground in the middle of the corridor, his crutch lying several feet out of his arm's length. As America watched, he tried to pull himself to his feet using a nearby doorknob, but the moment he tried to put weight on his right leg, it crumpled under his body like rice paper and sent him crashing into the carpet. It was, if anything, a truly pitiful sight.

"_Je déteste ma vie_," he muttered. "_Je déteste ma vie foutue beaucoup-_"

"France, are you okay?" asked America.

"Do I look as though I am, how do you say, 'okay'?" France demanded. "Help me stand up!"

America ran out into the corridor and snatched the crutch from the ground, then gave it back to France after pulling him to his feet.

"_Merci_, America," he said breathlessly. "This damn leg! I swear, one of these days I'm going to cut it off and feed it to a wolf!"

"Ha, yeah, that'll be the day," America scoffed. "The horniest and most womanising goddamn nation in the world deliberately cutting off part of his body and permanently mutilating himself? Probably not gonna happen any time soon."

"You should not be so quick as to judge by appearances," said France in a strangely mature-sounding voice. "I would have thought that you had come to understand that notion after the Atlantis Incident."

"You mean 'coz of Italy?" asked America.

France nodded in reply.

"I guess," said the younger nation. "What were you doin' out here, anyway?"

"I was wondering what kind of mischief our Oriental friend and his _Russie_ were getting up to," the pervert replied with a cocky smile, "but I cannot hear anything like the cacophony from this place last night. From what I can tell, they are simply talking."

"Can you blame 'em?" asked America. "I'd wanna do anything to distract myself from what's going on here. Whole lotta shit's getting fucked up all over the place."

"I would not have put it quite as eloquently," France said sarcastically (although it was rather likely that America missed it), "but you appear to be correct. In any case, I am returning to bed. I can tell there shall be no action this night."

"'Kay, g'night."

They started to make their way back into their respective rooms.

"America?"

"Yeah?"

"What exactly made _Angleterre _so exhausted that you would have to carry him up the stairs? You and he have not been… making whoopee, have you?"

"What?!" cried America. "No, don't be a dumbass! Iggy's way too frosty for anything like that!"

"Hmm," France said thoughtfully. "Perhaps he is still bitter, considering how violently he and I separated from one another, but I sometimes believe it was a relationship that was doomed from the very beginning."

"Dude," America said flatly, "that was like, ten years ago. Just get over it already."

He entered his room and shut the door, cutting himself off from the elder nation in a heartbeat.

"I wish I could," France said wistfully. "I really do."

* * *

For a few moments, nothing moved.

A police siren wailed past on the road outside, tyres screeched on tarmac and the clouds parted to reveal the shining moon, but in the hotel bedroom, there was no sound and no movement until Russia rested a hand over his heart, curling his fingers into a fist.

"Is it…" China said slowly. "Is alright if I… I see the whole thing-aru?"

The larger man lifted his vest up to his neck, revealing a comet-like red mark stemming from a spot right over his heart and stretching right across the left side of his chest. The skin was tighter and smoother-looking than the rest of his pale complexion, and China couldn't help himself when he reached up and felt along the length of it.

"That doesn't hurt, does it?" he asked. "I don't want to cause you pain-aru."

"_Nyet_, you are safe," Russia replied. "It was quite troublesome at first. It took long time to heal, much longer than usual. You remember when my heart fell out in that meeting?"

"Aiyah!" China cried in shock. "I prefer not to remember that, thank you!"

Russia smiled in what could have been satisfaction.

"But still," said China, "that is… _quite_ a story-aru."

"Difficult to believe, da?"

"No wonder you didn't want to talk about it. I would want something like that erased from history-aru!"

"I heard they tried," said Russia. "Tried to erase evidence. Burned documents and destroyed buildings – big cover-up operation near end of war – but the proof remains right here on my body."

China was about to speak, but the phone rang again and Russia dived back under the bed, once again lifting it clear of the floor.

"No," the shorter nation said automatically into the receiver, "we will not accept a call from Natalia Arlovskaya, so will you please kindly inform her that Ivan Braginsky is unavailable-aru!"

He hung up.

"You are going to have to deal with that girl-aru!" he pointed out. "She is causing both of you serious psychological damage! And it's not like you don't have enough already-aru!"

Russia still didn't emerge, so China crawled to the edge of the bed and looked underneath.

"Sorry to sound cruel or heartless," he said, "but you have to confront her-aru. It's only going to get worse if-"

"You don't know my sister!" said Russia. "She's strong and very tenacious, but not in a good way! I hide from her in wardrobes and under beds, but she still finds me and tries to make me marry her! Sometimes with knives! In past ten years, I've gone through eighteen doors, thirty-four handles and you don't want to know how many locks!"

He tried and failed to hide behind his forearms, which was admittedly unbelievably cute.

"Does she know-aru?" asked China. "About your…"

He indicated his chest and Russia shook his head.

"That's for the best," said the smaller man. "Now, are you going to come out-aru?"

Russia nodded solemnly and crawled out from under the bed, causing it to rock back and forth like a boat on a storm-wracked sea and hit the floor with a loud _thump_ once he was finally out.

There was a banging on the opposite side of the wall.

"Will you jackasses keep it down in there?" shouted America. "Some of us are trying to sleep, you horny sons of bitches!"

The bigger man paused for a moment before climbing up onto the bed.

"Are we really that loud?" he asked.

"Apparently so," China replied. "We can be pretty noisy sometimes, but I know it's only because you want to distract me from…"

He froze.

As Russia watched, his eyes started to dart from side to side. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and his breathing became short and shallow. Tell-tale signs of another darkness-related panic attack.

"Dark," he gasped. "No. It's dark. Too dark. It's too dark. I don't like it, something bad is going to happen, I just know it-!"

Russia seized him by the wrist, pulled him forward and cuddled him against his chest as though he were a plushie panda, and started whispering reassurances into his ear. This thankfully caused him to cease in his fear-induced jabbering.

"It's alright, da?" he muttered. "Nothing can hurt you. The darkness and shadows are nothing to be afraid of-"

"I KNOW!" China shouted. "And I-I don't understand why I'm so afraid-aru! Maybe it's because when it's dark, there's only one thing I can think of, and that's that _place_ where… wh-where they…"

His trembling fingers touched the ends of his hair.

"It's getting longer," Russia pointed out. "Longer than it was three months ago, da? Soon you'll be able to tie it back again."

It didn't do much good. China was still quivering uncontrollably.

"Maybe it's time we sleep, da?"

There was still no answer from the Oriental who was clinging to his body as though he were a life raft and they were stranded in the ocean over the Marianas Trench.

Russia sighed. His gaze wandered to the window.

"At least you don't have what I do," he muttered. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

* * *

**They don't turn the lights on because no light would ever be enough, and anyway, there would still be darkness outside, watching, _waiting..._**

**So far there have been plenty of guesses as to the identity of the third nation weapon, and I have been sitting back and cackling at you all. Well... alright, not really, but you get my drift. And I'm not going to say who was correct, because that would probably spoil it, but those more perceptive of you might - _might _- have figured it out by now. Which is a shame, because it's been fun to see you all guessing incorrectly. I can confirm that it's a character who is already in the story, and they aren't just going to be introduced out of the blue just so they can show off their weapon powers.**

**The guesses thus far are...**

**Switzerland: I**

**China: IIII**

**Russia: II**

**Canada: I**

**Japan: I**

**Prussia: I**

**Seems like China is the main contender for some of you. Whether or not he actually _is_ the third nation weapon is something that I'm not going to say.**

**I'm uploading this from my school library. Thought you might be interested to know that.**

**Leave a review and I might post the next chapter early if I'm in a good mood.**


	8. The Agony of Defeat

It was the sunlight streaming through the curtains the next morning which roused Germany from his slumber, but he didn't open his eyes at first. He wanted to have a lie-in this morning, after the events of last night, and he knew that Italy always liked to sleep in late whether he was supposed to get up or not.

He moved his hand up, hoping to run his fingers through that wonderfully soft auburn hair-

-and found nothing.

"Italy?"

His cracking eyes flew wide open when he was that where there had previously been a sleeping nation, there was now only empty space. Panic propelled him to sit bolt upright.

"Italy?" he repeated, louder this time. "Italy, where are you?"

Germany threw his covers aside and ran through his home, shouting Italy's name so loudly that it could probably have been heard in space. He didn't care if he was waking up Prussia or if he was making a mess – right now, all that mattered to him in the whole world was finding Italy and making sure he was safe.

"ITALY!" he shouted.

Still there was nothing. Except, on the edge of hearing, a faint thumping noise. Surely he hadn't…

Germany ran to the front door.

It was ajar, and banging against its frame in a light breeze which washed over his bare limbs and made him want to shiver. A note was pinned to the woodwork by a small strip of tape, and from this distance he could tell that it said:

_I have to see him._

"_Scheiße_," Germany swore. "Italy, you _dummkopf!_"

He ran to the door and his fingers had already curled around the handle by the time he realised that he had no idea how long Italy had been gone or whether or not he knew which direction was the correct one. Did he even know where Romano was?! Also, Italy was a rather fast runner when he put his mind to it, but…

'Oh, _fick_," he thought. 'What the hell am I supposed to do?!'

Not even Germany knew which police station or prison Romano was being held at. He'd heard of instinct drawing people together – brothers to sisters, parents to children, things like that – but he had long believed that it was all a load of _kuhscheiße_. He had to find Italy. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he sat back and allowed him to get hurt again.

'What should I do?' he screamed internally, digging his fingers into his skull. 'Come on, _Deutschland_, think! Think, think, think, think, _think!_'

His legs folded inward and his knees hit the floor with a deafening thump.

'There has to be something I can do,' he thought. 'I cannot run after him because I do not know where he might have gone or how far away he is by now, but I cannot just sit here like some kind of useless potato! Just… just _think_. What can I do?!'

Call someone.

That was it. He could call someone. They could intercept Italy and try to talk some sense into him!

And he knew someone close.

He just hoped they would be bothered to get out of bed.

* * *

_It wasn't his fault._

The cell was relatively average, as cells go. It was around ten feet squared with thick brick walls which were painted off-white and had scribbles on them from past prisoners – uplifting statements like 'George Woz Here' and 'Wot No Pasta?' A bare bulb was screwed into the ceiling and provided the only illumination besides the small window in the wall opposite the door. The floor was blank, cold concrete smoothed to perfection.

_It wasn't his fault._

There was a bed in one corner. The frame was steel, riveted to the wall and floor, and the mattress was a 6 inch thick strip of foam which was just the right size to have the prisoner's feet hanging off the end. It had a thin quilt and a single pillow, the sweat stains on which were hidden behind a blank white case. There was something which was probably supposed to double as a sink and a toilet set into one corner with a mirror over it. The mirror was made of polished metal rather than glass in order to prevent some amateur weaponsmith from breaking it and stabbing someone with one of the shards.

_It wasn't his fault_.

There were many other cells which were exactly the same.

_It wasn't his fault_.

But this one was ever so slightly different.

_It wasn't his fault!_

This one held a nation.

Romano sat on the bed, knees pulled up to his chest and clutching them tightly, staring – or maybe glaring – at the door and just daring somebody to try and come in. His jumpsuit was unbuttoned to the waist and the sleeves were tied around his hips, exposing his vest and his arms as if to say 'See? I don't give a damn.' Anyone who saw him might say his eyes were burning with fury.

'It wasn't my fault,' he thought. 'Veneziano must have done something. He must have. It can't all have been me. _It wasn't my fault_.'

There was a metallic clicking noise, followed by the door opening slightly.

"You've got ten minutes," said one of the guards. "Be warned, though: he's a bit of a wild one. Call for us if he tries any funny business."

"_Si. Grazie_ again."

Wait, was that…

It was.

The door swung open and Romano looked up to see his little brother standing there, looking at him with an expression which was some kind of mix of pity, anger and unimaginable terror, but this was far from the most noticeable thing about him. He was dressed sparsely: all he wore was an open deep-blue coat which reached to his knees, a pair of boxers and a bandage on his abdomen, presumably to hide where his brother had stabbed him. His legs were dirty to the knee and caked with mud and grass, and his hair was messy as though it had been blown about by wind. He basically looked as though he had pulled on the first clothes that came to mind and walked all the way from wherever he was staying, which was presumably some distance away judging by how messy he was.

He stepped into the room and the door closed behind him. To Romano, it was little more than a thump, but to his little brother it was like the slamming of a sarcophagus lid and it made him jump nearly a foot into the air. He gulped, sensing his doom was upon him, and slowly stepped towards the bed.

"R-Ro-Romano?" he stammered. "I-I hope you're okay, um… are they treating you well?"

Romano didn't speak. He glared at Italy with eyes filled with hatred.

"I had to see you," he said, sitting down on the cold floor with his legs crossed like an obedient schoolchild. "I-I couldn't just sit and wonder if you were okay. I keep dreaming about you. About that… that night when…"

He sniffed and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

"I just had to ask you why," he stated, staring at the floor rather than his brother. "Why did you do it? I mean, I know you were drunk and I understand that, and I know that you hate me, but… _why?!_ Why do you hate me so much, _fratello_? What did I do wrong that made you so angry at me all the time?"

He noticed a shadow over his body.

When he looked up, Romano was standing over him. He had taken the pillow out of its case and was clutching the cheap cotton bag in one hand. He knelt down and looked Italy in the eye, twisting the cloth into a rope as he did so.

"You want to know?" he asked. "Do you want to know why I hate you? _Exactly_ why I hate you?"

"_S-Si_," said Italy. "Please, just tell me! I want to know, please, I-"

He was cut off when Romano wrapped the twisted pillowcase around his neck and started to pull it tight.

"You want to know?" he snarled as his brother gasped and choked. "I hate you because you're a moron, Veneziano. I hate you because you're a coward. And you're a suck-up. And you spend more time with that damn potato bastard than you ever did with me!"

"No… please…" Italy gasped.

"Just SHUT UP!" Romano yelled. "You beg! All you ever do is beg! You're a worthless little piece of shit who's so weak he couldn't even fight off a-"

Italy's knee flew upward and hit him in the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs, and his foot kicked up into his family jewels, which incapacitated him to the point that the smaller man was able to shove him away and regain his breath.

"GUARDS!" he shouted. "SOMEONE HELP ME!"

"I said SHUT UP!" commanded Romano, wrapping his fingers around his _fratello_'s neck. "Always getting other people to fight for you, you useless son of a-"

The door flew open and a couple of guards ran in and pulled the enraged nation away from his little brother, who scrambled backwards along the floor away from the struggling Romano. An unfamiliar arm wrapped around his body and pulled him through the doorway and out of the cell.

"Please," he moaned, "don't hurt-"

"Calm down, Italy," said the person holding him. "He can't hurt you now."

Italy looked up.

"M-Mr Austri-"

"Shush," Austria snapped.

With a small gulp, Italy looked back at his struggling brother.

"You little bastard!" shouted Romano. "You won't always have people kissing your ass! I'm gonna get you alone someday! And then I'm gonna finish what I started! I'M GONNA KILL YOU, _FRATELLO_-"

Austria took the initiative and pulled the door closed, cutting him off and muffling the rest of his sentence.

"Come on," he said, pulling the smaller man to his dirty feet, "Germany is worried about you."

He started to lead Italy out of the building.

* * *

"What in the world were you _thinking?!_"

They were probably supposed to be at a train station or a bus stop, but something had gone wrong (thanks to Austria's rather unique sense of direction) and they had wound up in a square with a nice-looking fountain with a couple of aged, saturated _WANTED_ posters floating around in it, in which Italy was soaking his mud-caked legs. He was trying to avoid eye contact with the other man, who was glaring at him accusingly.

"You have always been foolish, but this is definitely something new," said Austria, as though he were some kind of annoyed parent. "How long were you walking for? Just take a look at your feet!"

When Italy looked down, he saw that the mud and dirt had been hiding more bruises, cuts and grazes than he ever could have thought possible on a single part of his body. Thankfully the cold water was numbing his feet and taking away the pain.

"Would you mind telling me what you were hoping to gain by simply rubbing more salt into your wounds?"

He remained silent.

"In what way was going to see him a good idea?"

He couldn't answer without incriminating himself.

"Are you _trying_ to cause yourself even more harm than you already have? I heard about the events of last night and it would be far more sensible for you to be recovering after such a violent attack!"

Especially with questions like these. He would only look even more weak and helpless than he already was.

"Are you even listening to me?!"

He shrank back at the harshness in the older man's voice.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry, Mr Austria, I never meant to make anybody scared or angry. I had to see him because I had to know why he hates me so much and why he… why he would…"

"Say it."

This time, he was too shocked to continue. He turned to Austria, who in turn was looking at him with an expectant expression.

"If you refuse to say exactly what happened, you are only furthering your denial," he stated. "And if you are in denial, you shall only be haunted by it for the rest of your life. So say it. I don't care how horrible it is or how much you wish it hadn't happened. _Say it_."

Italy gulped.

He hated to admit it, but Austria was right.

"…why he would rape me," he finished his sentence. "Why he would rape me and try to kill me to cover it up. I know he was drunk, but I don't think I'll ever-"

"Italy. Stop it."

Once again, he was shocked into silence.

"I thought that due to the changes that occurred in you during the Atlantis incident, you had grown beyond such immature behaviour," said Austria sternly. "You cannot allow your moments of weakness to define the rest of your life. If I had done that, I would not have been sitting here right now. Instead, I would simply be at home moping. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? Dwelling on the past is _useless_."

He took Italy's cheeks and turned his face to look him in the eye.

"You need. To move. On."

Italy didn't know how long he sat there, gazing into those gems of deep purple. They were sparkling in such a way that seemed to paralyse his whole body. They were eyes had had grown up with, eyes that had kept him safe despite their apparent animosity for him.

He could trust Austria. He knew that for sure.

"Y-you're right," he stammered. "You're right, I-I have to move on. O-or at least try to. I can't keep thinking about this an-and I've been through so much in my life that it seems almost small in comparison. I-I guess I should really be thankful that I'm n-not a normal person, huh? O-Otherwise, I-I might've- I could've _died_. I almost did! I almost died and yet- a-and yet I'm still here!"

"That's better," said Austria. "Now let me see you smile."

"Huh?"

"I shall be honest with you, Italy: your constant cheerfulness and happy-go-lucky attitude are anything but bearable, but it's most definitely preferable to seeing you moping like this all the time. So come on, then. Smile."

Italy gulped. He didn't know any way to obey without making it look ridiculously forced and unnatural.

"What are you waiting for?"

"I'm so sorry, Mr Austria! I'm just not sure if I can do it properly without it looking really bad and fake! And you have a really scary angry face so I always hate to disappoint you and make you unhappy!"

Without warning, Austria plunged his hand into the water and pulled out one of Italy's injured feet, tipping him onto his back and surprisingly not garnering hundreds of very confused stares from passers-by.

"I must say I am not too surprised," he said, "with your feet in such terrible condition. It must be incredibly painful: I mean, just take a look at the size of this graze!"

He ran his finger over a row of scratches on one of the balls of Italy's foot, and Italy had to force himself not to squeal or scream.

"And then there are these bruises on the undersides of your toes. Just how long were you walking?"

"I-I wasn't walking," said Italy, and he bit his lip to try to contain himself as Austria ran a thumb over his foot _far too gently_. "I was- _ha!_ I was running for most of the way- stop it! Please!"

Did he even know what he was doing?!

"Oh my," Austria said in his planning-something-sinister voice, "this one is absolutely _tremendous_."

When he stroked the graze on the sole of Italy's foot, the younger man let out a scream of laughter and descended into helpless, giggling hysterics punctuated by begs for relent.

"Stop!" he screamed. "Stop please, I beg you!"

Finally satisfied, Austria smiled and gently placed his foot back in the water.

"That's the Italy I know," he said, voice tinged with pride.

"M-Mr Austria?"

"Yes, what is it now?"

Without further hesitation, Italy did what he had wanted to do the moment Austria had shown up: dived forward and wrapped his arms around him in a massive, truly adoring embrace. Of course, since he was already rather low down, it was Austria's _waist_ that he was hugging, but he didn't care so long as he could cuddle him to his heart's content.

"Thank you," he muttered. He didn't speak in his native language because he wanted to know for sure that his former guardian would understand him.

"You're very welcome, Italy."

And he allowed himself a blissful smile as a warm, comforting (if slightly damp) arm was wrapped around his shoulders.

He'd never had an opportunity like this when he was younger. When he was tiny, Austria was far too strict about rules and discipline for his liking and had often scared him, so he considered himself lucky that there was Ms Hungary as well. And then there was…

…the other one. The one whose eyes made blue his favourite colour of all time.

Maybe, if the circumstances were different – maybe if there hadn't been so much conflict, so much war, so many people inadvertently keeping them apart – they could have been happy together. There would have naturally been problems once Italy entered puberty (Austria's reaction in particular had been… amusing) but they surely could have worked things out. Love conquered all, didn't it?

Didn't it?

It hadn't been strong enough. He had waited for years upon years for Holy Rome to come back to him, so that they could finally be together and be happy, but he never did. It was as though he had just dropped off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. He'd heard about some big battle, but that was the only thing he'd heard. Nobody told him if there were any survivors found or whether his body was ever recovered, but then…

But then, after so long…

He came back.

Holy Rome came back to him.

He had been terrified at first. He'd thought it was a ghost. But ghost children didn't grow up, did they? And it looked like Holy Rome had grown up to be a _very_ handsome man, as well as strong and tough and commanding and incredibly protective when he put his mind to it. He hadn't been sure at first, but was effectively convinced when he was asked if he was a descendant of Roman Empire – Holy Rome had known that, hadn't he? He just needed reminding.

But then, when he was hit with the butt of a rifle, he realised that something had changed. Holy Rome didn't remember him. It was as though they had never met in their whole lives.

Maybe he would remember someday. He just needed time.

He was already kinder to him than he had ever been.

"Italy!"

Italy looked up.

He was here.

"It… _hah_.. Italy," Germany panted, and he almost collapsed in exhaustion. "Thank goodness… you're alright."

"Germany!" Italy cried happily, and he leapt out of the fountain and into the big man's arms. "Ve~ I'm so glad you're here and you came to get me!"

"You _dummkopf_," admonished Germany. "What in the world were you thinking, walking so far without shoes? Just look at your feet! And what possessed you to come here in the first place?"

"Do not worry, Germany," said Austria as he stood up. "We have already gone through those motions, and considering Romano's reaction I doubt Italy will be wanting to see him again anytime soon."

Italy bowed his head in shame, waiting for Germany to metaphorically tear his head off.

"So you did go to see him?"

"_Si_. After last night, I felt like I had to. I wanted to show him I was okay and I wanted to know that he was okay. But he strangled me with a pillowcase and told me he hated me because I'm a weak and cowardly moron who spends more time with you than I ever did with him and always gets other people to fight for him and he told me he was going to kill me!"

"You brought it upon yourself. Adding to that the state your feet are in, it would have been a miracle if you had escaped with your life! You should be thankful that I could notify Austria in time for him to find you!"

"I know!" cried Italy, clearly on the brink of tears. "I know it was stupid! I'm sorry, Germany! I'm sorry I worried you! I'm sorry! Please don't be angry at me! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Calm down," said Germany. "I should be angry at myself for not noticing your absence sooner. Now let me take you home before you catch a cold."

He slipped his arms under Italy's body to hold him in a more stable fashion.

"_Danke_, Austria," he said.

"It's no big deal," said Austria in an indifferent tone. "I was in the neighbourhood anyway as I misplaced my sheet music for Moonlight Sonata. Anyway, I shall be seeing you."

"_Ja, auf weidersehen._"

* * *

Italy clutched at the cushions under his body and whimpered quietly to himself as Germany turned his foot this way and that, critically examining the multiple bruises, cuts and grazes which reached up to his ankles and covered his toes and wrapped all around his feet.

"Try to keep quiet," Germany half-requested, half-commanded. "Your whimpering is beginning to get on my nerves."

"_I'msorry!_" Italy choked. "T-tell me, i-is it b-b-bad?"

"_Nein_, not particularly," the larger man reported. "It was a good idea to soak your feet in the fountain, as it has removed a majority of the dirt, but there is some which has become engrained within the cuts and grazes. I fear I will have to wash them thoroughly with a brush in order to get it out, and I shall not lie to you: it will be extremely painful."

Italy couldn't help but moan in fear.

"Don't be afraid," said Germany as he lowered the foot. "You know I would never do anything to deliberately hurt you. Stay here and wait: I shall find some supplies with which to clean your wounds."

He got up and left.

Italy looked down at his feet. They were blue and purple where they had been bruised and a combination of red and brown where the cuts and grazes were beginning to scab. They were stinging in the open air, but it would probably be even more painful if there was something on them and rubbing against his raw skin. He silently cursed himself for not thinking to put some shoes on.

But then again, he had been in rather a hurry.

He sat back on the couch, doing his best to relax and ignore the fact that he had been promised pain if he were ever to be healthy.

When Germany returned, he was holding a streaming bowl of water in one arm, a nail brush and a couple of bandage rolls in his other hand and bore a towel draped over his shoulder. He placed them on the floor near Italy's feet and, to the smaller man's alarm, removed his belt and handed it to him.

"Bite on it," he suggested. "The pain will be more bearable, I swear."

With a small gulp, Italy folded the leather strap into four and placed it between his teeth while Germany soaked the brush in the visibly soapy water and rubbed it to build up a reasonable amount of foam.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Italy rapidly shook his head, and Germany bowed his in regret.

He started with the top of Italy's foot, where the damage was at its least gut-wrenching, at it wasn't long before his scrubbing had tainted the white foam with streaks of pale red. Surprisingly, Italy wasn't biting too hard on the leather in his mouth. Maybe the lack of preliminary damage in this area meant that the cleaning wasn't so painful.

But then he moved up to the ankle, where the skin was thinner, and the moaning began. It was much louder than it would otherwise have been because Italy's mouth was open, and he started to sink his teeth further into the belt, now thankful for its presence. His eyes were screwed up in a further attempt to deal with the pain, as well as his fingers alternating between curling into fists and scratching at the cushions. It only got worse as Germany proceeded to the back and sides of his heel, and then covered the tops of his toes: he was squeaking like a dog's toy and it was exactly as excruciating to hear.

Then Germany started on the sole of his foot.

The rough bristles coursing over his scratched skin, combined with the sting of the germ-killing soap, was rather high on the list as one of the most painful things Italy had ever had to experience. He was unable to prevent his choked screams of pain from escaping his teeth as they sank deep into the belt, or the tears that pricked his eyes from breaking free and rolling down his cheeks. His fingernails carved deep grooves into Germany's couch and he was unable to avoid thumping the cushion, which of course cause his body to shift and Germany's hand to slip and dig into his foot. This time, it was too painful even for him to scream.

It was all Germany could do just to focus on the task at hand and not jump forward to comfort him. Italy let out a particularly loud yelp when his foot was dipped into the hot water and the foam was washed away, but he started to calm down as his skin was dried and a bandage was wrapped liberally around the limb and fastened with a quickly produced safety pin.

"There," he said. "That's done."

"Hey West, we got any beer left?"

When Prussia entered the room, he froze and stared at what was before him: his younger brother washing the feet of a tearful Italy (who had a folded-up belt between his teeth) with a nail brush.

"The hell's going on?" he asked.

"Italy decided to go and see his _bruder_," Germany explained, "and he took neither transport nor shoes and chose instead to walk or run for the entire journey. As a result, his feet have been rather badly injured, and I am cleansing them of dirt before he falls victim to infection."

Prussia shrugged.

"Fair enough," he decided. "Anyway, have we got any-"

"I will tell you if you do me a favour," Germany interjected. "Is there any chance you could hold Italy still while I clean his other foot? I do not wish to hurt him any more than necessary."

Italy cracked one eye open and looked at Prussia pleadingly.

That sparkling caramel-coloured eye, combined with the tears tricking down his cheek, was the most pathetic and adorable thing the albino had ever seen.

"_Ja_, sure," he said with another shrug. He sat down on the shredded cushions next to Italy, who almost immediately started to clutch at his body in search of solace. Prussia hugged him right back.

"Please remain calm," said Germany. "It'll be over soon, I promise."

"You hear that?" muttered Prussia. "Won't take much longer. You'll be okay, little guy! You survived the first one, didn't you? C'mon, you can get through a little foot cleaning, can't you?"

It was probably not going to be as bad this time, because Italy now knew what he could expect, but that didn't stop the fear of pain from growing ever more prevalent in his mind.

When Germany began on his other foot, Italy squeaked and wailed through the leather between his teeth and his fingers grasped the nearest available thing (i.e. Prussia) in the hope of finding comfort. Prussia held him in return, overcome by the cuteness of his actions and how truly pathetic and endearing his moans were. He was almost like a dog that was pining for its owner to return home after a long day at work.

"Why didn't you put any shoes on, you little _dummkopf?_" Prussia asked him. "What, did you think you'd be able to fly there like one of America's dummy superheroes?"

Italy let out a series of sobs which sounded vaguely like he was saying "I don't know!"

And this was all _before_ Germany started to clean the underside of his foot. When he did, Prussia had to try _very hard_ not to hurt poor Italy by holding him too tightly, which was difficult since he was wriggling and writhing more than he ever had before. At one point, he grabbed the albino's hand and squeezed so hard it almost came off.

Eventually it ended: both of Italy's feet were properly clean and bandaged, and Italy reached up with a quivering hand and took the belt out of his mouth.

"Sorry," he said weakly, "I think I ruined it."

Germany examined the leather strap. It had almost been bitten clean through.

"Damn," Prussia said in admiration. "How sharp are your teeth, Italy?"

"I don't know," Italy confessed. "I think I ruined the couch as well."

"I do not care about the couch," said Germany. "All that matters to me is that you are alright. I'm sorry that I had to be so rough with you, but you must understand that I had to be sure you would not become sick. I would not want you to have your feet amputated."

"Well, if he did," said Prussia, "you could do it yourself! No knives needed!"

"What?" cried Italy. "Germany, you told him about your powers?!"

"Hey, he told you and not me seven damn months ago!" Prussia pointed out as he got up. "And I'm his _älter bruder!_ You should be grateful!"

Upon being released, Italy slid off the seat and into a kneeling position on the floor, whereupon Germany pulled him into a massive hug and Prussia decided that he should be the one to tidy away the foot-cleaning utensils as these two were obviously preoccupied at the moment.

"I'm sorry," Germany muttered. "I swear I didn't mean to hurt you so much. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Italy replied. "I know it was for my own good. And I promise it doesn't hurt so much anymore."

He looked down at his bandaged feet.

"They look like ninja footwraps like in Japan's movies," he said with a smile. "Ve~ I look like a ninja!"

"Not quite," said Germany, allowing himself a small chuckle – Italy's happiness was contagious. "Are you able to stand?"

"Ve~ I think so. Can you help me?"

"_Ja_, of course."

Italy hung onto Germany's shoulders as the big man stood up, and after testing his weight, gently lowered himself onto his bandaged feet. He winced a little, but once they were flat on the floor, he seemed to relax. He lifted them up and down a couple of times to try them out, and found that it was far easier to walk with feet which were bandaged than it was to walk with feet that were bruised and cut and grazed and god knows what else.

"_Grazie_," he said. "Really, I mean it. And I'm really sorry I didn't tell what I was doing, but I didn't want to wake you up. Ve~ you look so pretty when you're asleep, Germany!"

"W-Why do you say such things?!" Germany demanded, flushing redder than an embarrassed raspberry. "Y-you know that it is completely inappropriate!"

"Ve~ But you look so funny!" Italy giggled.

Germany would never be the one to admit it, but he secretly loved to watch Italy when he was laughing. His whole face would just light up like the sun; his eyes, if they were open, sparkled like stars in the night sky, and his smile was like a shining crescent moon. And he sounded so unbelievably _happy_ and almost melodious in his laughter.

It rather reminded him of someone he knew, but he couldn't quite figure out whom.

"You seem to be back to your old self," he commented.

Italy stopped laughing.

"Ve~ I know," he said with a smile. "It feels nice."

"It looks nice too."

And then he stared.

"I-I mean," Germany said as he blushed again and frantically tried to backtrack, wringing his hands like crazy. "W-What I mean is, w-well… u-um… what I mean is, I prefer you this way. Th-that is, n-not just me, specifically, b-but you just- you're preferable this way, okay? I think I speak for just about anybody when I say it is much better to see you laughing than to see you crying, um… this is… a bit awkward…"

There was a knock at the door and Germany practically melted with relief.

"I'll get it!" cried Prussia from another room, despite the fact that his younger brother was closer.

Still a little uneasy on his feet, Italy stumbled over to the torn-up sofa and sat down. He started to massage his bandaged feet, but Germany pulled his hands away.

"You shouldn't do that," he warned, "unless you wish to hurt yourself even more."

"Ve~ it's okay," said Italy. "It doesn't hurt that much anymore. It aches a little, but that's probably just because you scrubbed it so much. I didn't lose too much blood, did I?"

"_Nein_, hardly any-"

The front door banged open and Prussia started shouting.

"You know," Germany sighed, "one of these days, I would like to finish a sentence uninterrupted."

Italy dragged him down onto the couch and tried to hide behind him.

"Don't worry," said Germany, "I won't let whoever it is lay a finger on you."

The shouting near the front door continued. By the sounds of things, quite a few people were trying to enter, and Prussia was failing to hold them back.

"Will you just be a sport and let us through? It's beginning to get a bit chilly outside."

"Fine, but you can't all- hey!"

"We gotta talk to your bro, so shove it!"

"Who is touching me? Please remove your hand before I cut it off!"

"_Je suis désolé, mon ami_."

"DON'T PUT IT NEAR ME-ARU! Who knows where that hand has been?!"

"Where is he? I must speak with him, it's urgent!"

"What, so you can make him 'become one' with you? I don't think so- _get back here!_"

Italy couldn't make himself small enough as Russia suddenly burst into the room, looking as though he had just walked through a riot and trailing several other nations behind him. His violet eyes were fixed on Germany.

"You are weapon?" he panted.

Germany glared accusingly at two of the nations who had just entered.

"Hey, he made us tell everyone!" America said defensively. "I'd like to see you say _nein_ when some freaky-ass giant pulls a pipe outta the wall and tries to hit you with it!"

"I must confess that I am quite intrigued by the notion," said France.

"Yes, I bet you _are_," England muttered. "Sick of shagging people, so you want to shag inanimate objects instead?"

Japan didn't say anything. He just clutched his sheathed katana (how the hell he got it past customs at the airport, nobody knew) defensively and tried to hold it out of reach.

"Well, Germany?" said China. "_Are_ you a weapon-aru? Or was America telling stupid lie to save own skin, which would not surprise me?"

"You know it's not a lie! Iggy made me show you, remember?"

While all this was going on, the mammoth nation never once shifted his eyes away from the pair sitting on the damaged couch. Mostly he glared at Germany, but occasionally he would glance at Italy.

"_Si_, he is," said the smaller man, breaking under the pressure.

"Italy!" cried Germany angrily.

"I'm sorry, Germany!" Italy whined. "You know I don't like it when Russia stares at me, he's scary! Germany, h-he can turn into a spear, okay? A big shiny spear! Now please stop staring at me!"

There was a terrifying pause as Russia's gaze faltered, only for a moment.

"A-and you can prove it, da?"

Germany held out his arm, a motion which had become very familiar to him over the past few months, and allowed it to become a spear in a wash of deep orange light. It only lasted a few seconds, and then he turned it back again.

"Proof enough for you?" he asked sarcastically.

Russia's field of vision fell from him to the floor, where he started staring blankly into space.

"Germany is spear…" he muttered, "America… is bayonet…"

He fell to his knees and clutched at the left side of his chest.

"I… I'm so _relieved_…" he choked.

"Excuse me," Prussia said with no care as to whether he was excused or not, "but will someone please tell me what the HELL is going on? Why am I always the last to hear about shit?"

"So long…" Russia muttered, "…for _so long_…"

Sensing that the danger had passed, Italy extracted himself from behind Germany and joined everyone else in craning to listen.

"I… I thought… for so long… I thought I was the only one."

* * *

**Agony of defeat. *snicker snicker* Get it? I should probably mention that yes, that **_**was**_** a realistic way of cleaning Italy's wounds. Think about it: he'd been walking barefoot for god knows how many miles, his feet getting cut up by rocks and gravel and litter, and he'd been treading dirt up in there as well, so… yeah. ****I know Austria probably seems a little cold in this chapter, but it's my first time writing him and I honestly get really nervous when I write for a character I haven't written for before. I'm _constantly_ going to wikis and checking that I'm accurately portraying their personality, so I hope that he doesn't seem out of character at all.**

**The final votes for the identity of the third weapon are...**

**Switzerland: I**

**China: IIIII**

**Russia: III**

**Canada: II**

**Japan: I**

**Prussia: II**

**Italy: I**

**Greece: I**

**France: I**

**Someone suggested it should be France because he might need something to make up for his disability, but don't worry. I have some _very_ special plans for him and Japan. And some others said that Prussia and Canada should be weapons because they're the brothers of Germany and America, but here's the thing that you would've caught had you been paying attention: Germany was NOT born with weapon powers, they are a result of a blood transfusion you would have found out about if you'd read Draw a Circle, and America's a weapon because his is the landmass where the DWMA is located (so he probably has a cell or two of reaper blood in there as well).**

**China was the most popular, but I think he'd be better at fighting than being fought with, and it's already been established that Italy is a meister. ****Plus I do recall saying that I wouldn't be introducing a new character just so they could say 'Hey, I'm a weapon!' so Switzerland (I think that was more for the sake of a joke, though) Canada and Greece wouldn't even come into it.**

**Russia's is a _special_ case.**

**Leave a review and I'll let you all in on what happened to him.**


	9. Ukradennyye Krovi

**Natzweiler-Struthhof, spring 1943**

_To say that Russia was frightened would have possibly been the biggest understatement of the century. He had to physically force his body not to tremble in fear, and it didn't help that he stuck out like a sore thumb in this place. Sure, most of the people here apparently weren't much older than he looked, but it wasn't like that did any good when it came to reassuring him._

_He still wasn't sure what had happened. When he tried to go over the events of the past few days in his head, it was all a rushed blur. Maybe he was attacked. Maybe he had too much vodka. Maybe this was all some kind of sick, twisted joke on behalf of his comrades._

_In any case, he was in a cell._

_In a concentration camp._

_It was cold. They had taken his coat and his scarf, without which he already felt defenceless and naked, and without these extra layers to guard him from the altitude-induced chill, he was freezing. The only way he ever knew what was going on was when he looked out the window, where he saw men and women and even young teens in clothes as simple as his, and watch towers and barbed-wire fences and armed guards and… he didn't want to think about what else might be out there. He'd heard things. Horrible things._

_The worst part was that nobody here had any idea who he was. When he was being escorted to the cell he now occupied, the word which was tossed around the most was 'Slav'. He had no idea what it meant, but judging by the tone these Nazis were using, it had to be something derogatory._

_It was terrifying to think that at any moment, somebody could come in and march him off to execution, and due to his non-human nature, it wouldn't work. So they would likely try something else. Perhaps conduct some kind of experiment. Try to find something, anything, that could end his life, and none of it would work because they weren't the same kind of person as him._

_He was strong and healthy enough for work – or 'work' – so why was he locked up in here? Why weren't they bringing him any food?_

_Maybe they did know who he was. They were just locking him up away from everyone else because he was supposed to be kept a secret. And after all, a six foot blonde with purple eyes was practically the walking definition of suspicious._

_There was a loud knock at the door._

"Aufstehen!_" shouted a voice on the other side._

_Russia had no idea what that meant – he wasn't anywhere near fluent in German – but stood up all the same._

_The door swung open and he was faced by a pair of guards, each wielding a nasty-looking machine gun._

"Raus,_" one of them barked roughly in his direction._

_He didn't move. He couldn't. It was as though his feet were nailed to the floor. Frozen. Paralysed._

"Raus!_" the guard repeated. "_Augenblicklich!_"_

_Were they telling him to leave? To come out of his cell?_

_One of them was bold enough to walk in and drag him out by the arm._

"Raus hier, du Schwein!_" he shouted, and threw the confused nation out into the corridor._

_Elsewhere in the block, there was a scream of agony. Another poor soul was dead._

_After feeling a gun barrel press into his back, Russia started to walk in the indicated direction. The armed guards were following on his heels and talking, presumably about him: they were still managing to work the word 'Slav' into the conversation._

_As they were passing a cell which had some kind of commotion taking place inside, one of the Germans hooked his foot around Russia's ankle and tripped him, sending him crashing heavily – and in their minds, hilariously – to the floor._

_It was only then, with the bullies jeering at him and laughing at his pain like people had for a majority of his life, that the tall man realised something odd about the interior of the cell nearby:_

_Someone was speaking in Russian. It was accented with German, but still recognisable as the language of the Motherland._

"_Why can't you leave me alone?" was the shout of a young man, who was quiet clearly weak and frightened. "I never did anything to you! It's not my fault that I'm the way I am! Just go away!"_

_As feet nudged his side, Russia watched the shadows moving under the door as someone was knocked down and another person or two leaned over them. Guard? Doctor? Scientist? He didn't know._

"_Get that- GYA!"_

_He couldn't help but wince when he heard his fellow countryman yelp in pain._

"Auf die Füße,_ Slav," said one of the guards, and Russia was dragged to his feet and pushed further down the corridor._

_He was only shouted at some more when he tried to look back, but they couldn't block out the sound of a scared young man who was clearly close to tears._

"_Why are you doing this?" the prisoner moaned. "Please, I… I just want to go home!"_

_Were he not flanked by two Nazis holding machine guns, Russia would have thrown the door off its hinges and dragged the prisoner to safety. He didn't care who they were or what they may have done in their past. They were one of his, and he wanted to get them to safety._

_Eventually, they reached their destination._

_This cell was definitely different to the one he had been imprisoned in. Everything was white – the walls, the floor, the clothes the people inside were wearing, the bed in the centre – all white._

_Russia gulped._

_The bed had straps on it._

_He was shoved in and the door was shut. To his ears, it was like the slamming of his coffin lid. White gloved hands pulled him forward and removed his shirt, and then he was laid down on the bed._

"Bitte bleiben Sie ruhig,_" said one of the doctors as the straps were pulled tight around his body. "_Dies wird über in Minuten._"_

"_What?" said Russia. "I don't understand what you're saying! What's going on? What are you doing?"_

_One of the doctors (he presumed that was what they were) produced a large syringe, and he was unable to pull his arm away as he inserted it into the crook of his elbow. It stung like mad and was gruesome to watch, so he turned his face away and saw-_

_-and saw something he hadn't noticed when he first entered._

_In one corner, there was a mound. It was white just like everything else, so it was only natural that he hadn't seen it at first, but covered in blotches of red and reddish-brown. And poking out from underneath was…_

_He nearly threw up._

_It was an arm. A human arm. Covered in blood._

"_Wait!" he shouted as one of the doctors was speaking into a tape recorder. "What's happening? What are you going to do to me?!"_

"Beginnen Injektion,_" one of them said._

_Russia froze. He didn't have to know how to speak German to know exactly what that person had just said._

_There was a second needle, this time already filled with blood, and it wasn't his. Most likely, it had been the reason the prisoner he had heard earlier sounded so scared. It was heading towards his upper body._

_He tried to struggle and pull himself free, but it was impossible. The straps were far too tight. They were obviously designed to hold somebody of his rather extreme stature. How many men and women had been in this position before him? How many of them had died?!_

_The needle pierced his chest and the contents were emptied into straight his heart._

_The shock caused his now adrenaline-fueled arm to jerk upwards, ripping the strap's buckle out of the bedframe, and punch out the doctor who was holding the syringe. This came with the unfortunate side effect of the needle tearing open the left side of his chest and splattering blood all over the floor. One of the doctors wrenched the door open and several of them fled as Russia pulled himself free, bit by bit, and almost collapsed with his hands clutching his chest and trying to hold the wound closed until it healed. It was inflicted by humans, so it wouldn't take long._

_He could hear the doctors screaming and realised he would have to hide. It was cowardly, but could give him the advantage if he put his mind to it. So after checking to make sure the hole in his heart had closed (lucky it was so small and that he didn't heal like a human) and still holding his skin together, he picked up the bed, dragged it backwards and stood behind it in the shelter of the open door._

_Then he waited._

_After a few moments, he heard a small platoon of guards come into the room, and placed his foot on the back of the bedframe so that he could kick it at them and slam them into the opposite wall, rendering them unable to hurt him._

_Just like that._

'_Such a waste of humanity,' he thought as he left the room._

_He felt his wound. Aside from where his heart had been punctured, the damage was only skin deep, but there was still a rather nasty gash on the left side of his chest which reach almost to his armpit and would probably never heal completely._

_No matter. He had a countryman to rescue before he worried about himself._

_He snatched his shirt from where it had been placed on a table covered in surgical tools and staggered out of the room and down the corridor towards where he'd heard his language being pleaded in._

_Eventually, and somehow managing to stay on his feet, he found it and knocked on the door._

_There was a shuffling noise on the other side and the sound of someone… sobbing?_

"_Please," said the voice of the prisoner, still speaking in German-accented Russian. "No more, please. I can't take it anymore, I… I don't think I have much left! I don't have enough blood left for another one! Just let me go home! PLEASE!"_

_Russia had been about to pull the lock off the door, but he couldn't help but stop and listen to the young man's wretched sobbing._

_What in the world had they been _doing_ to him?!_

_Clutching his chest with his other hand, he pulled back his fist and punched through the lock. This action was met with silence on the other side, so out of fear for the prisoner's safety, he reached through until he was up to his elbow in door and pulled it clean off its hinges. When he was done kicking it off his arm, he looked into the cell._

_The prisoner was far younger than he had expected. By the voice, he had thought that it was somebody who was at least in their early or mid-twenties, but he couldn't have been any more than sixteen. Seventeen, at the most. He was incredibly thin, his pale arms pockmarked with syringe scars, and his entire body was trembling as he curled up as small as he could (which, due to the size of him, was definitely rather small) and tried and failed to conceal himself in the corner of his cell._

_He was a… _kid_._

_Nothing more than a terrified child._

"_I just wanted to see my mother," he moaned into his hands. "With everything that's going on, I just wanted to know she was okay. I didn't want this. Tell me she's alright!"_

_He buried his face deep in his folded arms and sobbed._

"_I want…" he wept, "I want to go home… please…"_

"_Then come with me."_

_At the sound of Russia's voice, the boy raised his head and the nation got a better look at him. His hair was palest blonde, messy and dirty as it fell about his face and clung to his wet cheeks and sweaty forehead. His eyes, in contrast, were big and sharp and light brown. And wide with fear._

"_Who are you?" he asked, suddenly curious rather than frightened or self-pitying. "Y-You're not with them?"_

"_No, I'm not," Russia replied. "It's alright, you can trust me. I'm a friend. I'm a prisoner, just like you."_

_The prisoner's eyes fell upon his bleeding chest._

"_They hurt you, didn't they?" he asked. "That's why they've been taking my blood, you know. They've been putting it in other people's bodies. They didn't tell me, but I can hear their screams from here."_

"_Yes, they hurt me," said Russia, and he stepped a little closer and kneeled down before the frightened teenager, "but I'm fine, do you see? I'm standing right in front of you. Well, kneeling now, but… what's your name?"_

_The prisoner gulped._

"_Johann," he choked. "Johann Ivanov."_

"_Are you from Russia, Johann?"_

"_No, but my father is. Was. He died on the Front. My mother is German, but she sent me to a school in America before the War began. I hoped I would be able to come and see her to comfort her after we lost my father, but I-"_

"_You are a fool," said Russia. "Why would you come to Europe at a time like this? Especially a person of your descent! Of course you were going to end up in a place like this! People like you are often punished for their stupidity, you know!"_

"_I'm sorry," said Johann. "I know now. It was stupid. Are you… are you Russian?"_

"_Yes," said Russia with a faint smile. "My name is Ivan. We're getting out of here, alright?"_

"_You'll never get out," said Johann as he was helped, still wavering slightly, to his feet. "Didn't you see this place? It's maximum security! If you put so much of a foot outside, it'll be shot right off your body unless…"_

"_Unless what?"_

_Johann raised a hand to his chin, suddenly thoughtful._

"_Ivan," he said, "what do you know about medieval weaponry?"_

* * *

"_They're coming."_

"_I know, I can hear them."_

_They waited, hiding in the shelter of the open door, Johann quite clearly trying not to be intimidated by the fact that Russia was nearly two feet taller than he was. Being locked up and half-starved hadn't done wonders for his physique, and neither did having what was presumably a rather large amount of blood extracted from his body._

_He looked down at the marks on his bony arms._

"_Fifteen," he said._

"_What?" said Russia._

"_They took blood from me fifteen times," Johann explained. "Once more and I would have a scar for each year of my life so far. I think they were trying to create some sort of super soldier, and if you don't mind me saying, it looks like they finally succeeded."_

"_Trust me," said Russia, "I already knew how to annihilate a person and grind their bones into dust long before I came anywhere near this horrible place."_

_A strange thing happened. Most of the time, when Russia said something like that, people would cringe in fear and probably try to run away, but somehow Johann found it rather amusing. He was sniggering._

"_Are you the kind of troops they're training these days?" he asked. "Still, you're a lot better than my father. I'm willing to bet that his main plan on the battlefield was to play the balalaika at the Nazi dogs and hope they either ran away in terror or fell before his incredible talent."_

"_And I expect you would have done something far more daring and valiant, yes?"_

"_Naturally. I would have played the piano."_

_It was Russia's turn now to laugh quietly to himself._

_Now that he had stopped blubbering, Johann was turning out to be quite an interesting young man, if not the most interesting the nation had ever met, what with his… unique capabilities which made it rather obvious why the Nazis were taking his blood and injecting it into other people._

"_Are you sure about this?" asked Russia as the approaching footsteps grew louder. "It's just that I've never fought with this kind of weapon before."_

"_There's nothing to worry about," said Johann, in what was most likely supposed to be a reassuring tone, but it mostly just came off as indifferent. "If you really are as quote-unquote special as you say, 'Ivan', this will probably come naturally to you. Old-time weapons and all that."_

"_I suppose," said Russia. "Now shush, they're almost here!"_

_He pressed the boy into the wall to try and keep him from being seen. Despite all that he had confessed about himself, the nation still didn't want one of his people – even a half-caste – to get in harm's way without cause. This kid was special in a rather unique way._

"_I'm going to transform now-"_

"_No, wait! Wait until they get inside!"_

"_But they'll see the light!"_

_Russia nodded grimly._

"_Exactly," he said._

_A small group of soldiers entered the room and started to look around, pointing their guns in every direction. Russia and Johann shared a nervous glance, each sensing what the other was thinking, and Johann bowed his head, closed his eyes and concentrated._

_There was a burst of blue light._

_When the soldiers turned to see what the source was, they were almost instantly cut down, and only then did Russia pause to admire the weapon he was holding._

_It was a halberd: the medieval combination of an axe, a spear and a gigantic-handled hook. All three blades were so impossibly sharp that upon closer inspection, they had actually cut through the wall. The concrete wall. Which they hadn't even touched. They seemed to emit an eerie aura of sharpness which made the nation feel uncomfortable as he looked at them. The round brown eye that sat in the centre of them, set into the shaft, wasn't helping in any way._

"_Wow," Russia sighed breathlessly. "This is _amazing_. No wonder they were so eager to harness this power!"_

"_I told you I wasn't lying," said Johann, whose voice was now sharp and tinny as though he were speaking from the inside of a tin can. "Are you ready to leave this place in the dust?"_

"_Yes, of course."_

"_Good, now listen. We can't leave through the main entrance because not only will that be what they're expecting us to do, but we'll end up in the middle of the camp and neither of us will get out alive. If you can, head to the back of this building and bust through the wall, because then there'll only be the fences, camp enclosure and watch towers to worry about before we're free to reach the forest outside. But first, once you get beyond the inner fences, you'll see a villa further across the grounds, and I want you to head there and see if you can hide out in the garden. You got it?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Then let's go!"_

_After getting over the shock of being commanded by a half-caste, Russia ran out of his cell and headed away from the main entrance to the back of the cell block. He paused at the end of the corridor._

"_You know all of that," he said to Johann, "which means you must have been here for quite some time."_

"_Yes, it's true," said the boy/halberd. "They came in to take blood from me every three days. Today was the fifteenth. I don't think I have to tell you how long they had me. It'll feel good to get outside again."_

_It had been… a little over six weeks. The thought of a child being held by these monsters for such a period of time, let alone what they had been doing to him, made Russia feel sick._

_He sliced through the door to the cell before him, apologised to the prisoner who was locked in there, and kicked through the wall._

_True to Johann's word, there was a fence not far away which had another fence not far away from it, perhaps the narrowest enclosure the nation had ever seen. It was more like a channel than anything else, and when he looked to the left and right, he could see a couple of watch towers which were bound to cause him trouble. He ran out, slashed through the fences and jumped and rolled to avoid being hit by bullets as he ran towards the promised villa, and which point he ducked into the shrubbery and tried to make his body as small as possible._

_Beside him, Johann transformed back into a person._

"_Thrilling, isn't it?" he asked._

"_Yes, you could put it that way," said Russia. "It's disgusting what they're doing in there. Do you think they'll make a big fuss about us?"_

"_Not if we get out of here unscathed," Johann replied. "That's what the Nazis are like. They're hypocrites: they'll cover up anything which could damage their public image in the slightest, and yet they round up thousands of Jews and gypsies and homosexuals because they're 'imperfect'. Slavs too, like you and me."_

"_By 'Slav' do they mean Russians? Like us?"_

"_Turks too, but mostly Russians. I think they were a little confused about me, though."_

_They paused as a couple of guards ran past the greenery where they were hiding, shouting something in German, and thankfully didn't notice either of them hiding beneath the mass of thin branches and leaves._

"_They won't look for us here," said Johann. "With such a high profile place as the commandant's personal villa, they'd think we'd run right past it and avoid going anywhere near it."_

"_Like a mouse hiding from a cat in the cat's basket."_

"_Exactly."_

_It was quite a large and grand looking house which even had a pool in its garden, which was confusing as it was quite cold and not the kind of weather where anyone would want to go swimming. Russia's curiosity got the better of him and he looked through a window to see what was…_

"_My scarf," he muttered._

"_What?" asked Johann. "What about it?"_

"_The commandant has my scarf," said Russia. "I can't allow it, I have to get it back!"_

"_Don't be stupid!" said Johann, dragging the tall nation back into the bushes. "It's only a scarf! Surely you can afford to buy another one once you get out of here and back to civilisation?"_

_Buy_ another one?!

"_Johann," Russia growled, "that scarf was given to me by my big sister when we were children. It's the only symbol I have of the times when my family could be together even when others were fighting to split us up and keep us that way. It's all I have left. I have to get it back."_

_Johann was stunned with shock._

"_Normally," he said, "I would be telling you to get over yourself and leave it, but since you were completely terrifying just now, I'll help you."_

"_Good," said Russia. "Now transform."_

_The boy gulped and turned back into a halberd as the nation, hoping that the commandant would be distracted with all the commotion he had caused at the camp, carved the lock out of the front door and snatched up his scarf._

_He was putting it back on when…_

"Ist jemand hier?!_"_

_They froze._

"_We should go," said Russia._

"_Agreed," said Johann._

_They ran._

_As soon as they left the cover of trees provided by the villa's semi-fancy garden, they were sighted by the guard towers and the fire began again. Thankfully they were aiming for where the two were and not where they were going to be, so they weren't injured, but there were many times when bullets whizzed right past their bodies and came dangerously close to hitting them._

"_Are you alright?" Russia shouted over the noise._

"_I'm fine!" Johann replied. "I haven't been hit yet, so that's something! Head for the outer fence!"_

_He jumped and landed in Russia's hands in his halberd form, and the nation used him once again to slice through the fence and jump through to safety._

"_We're out!" he cried._

"_Not yet!" said Johann. "Get into the trees and keep heading south!"_

_Russia obeyed unquestioningly. By now, his body seemed to be running on permanent automatic mode, the rhythmic thumping of his feet on the ground sounding distant and alien to him. He felt as though if he dared to stop running even for a second, he would fall and probably be killed by one of the troops chasing him. His head was beginning to feel weightless and empty and his stomach felt strange, but he could deal with that once he was safe._

_He couldn't stop. Not for anything. Stopping meant death._

_Even though he felt as though every ounce of strength and breath was being forcibly extracted from his body and he could drop dead at any second._

"_Ivan!" shouted Johann. "Ivan, are you alright?"_

_He wasn't. Russia was anything but alright. The familiar weight of the scarf around his neck was reassuring, but he knew that if he dared to stop running, even for a second, it would become a hangman's noose. It didn't help matters that as he finally reached the woods that surrounded the camp, he was hit by a massive wave of nausea and dizziness and almost collapsed._

_It was only once he had crossed the border of trees that he allowed his legs to fold underneath him and he crashed heavily to the ground. Johann retook his human form and lifted the larger man's arm over his shoulder._

"_Come on," he groaned as he tried to drag Russia deeper into the forest. "We're almost away. Don't give up on me now!"_

_The world had become blurry and fuzzy and whenever he tried to focus on something, it slipped away to be replaced by something else. His field of vision was spinning and tumbling end over end, which in turn made his stomach feel as though it was doing backflips and he used all of his self-control to avoid retching._

_It was uncomfortable to feel his feet dragging along the ground, so he pulled them up and tried to walk._

"_That's it," said Johann. "That's what you need. I'm sorry about this, but I probably don't have the same blood type as you. They never did bother to check. Come on, Ivan. We have to get out of here!"_

_When he heard shouting in German not far away, Russia began to panic, and he forced himself to keep going. He ran through the trees, Johann close behind, and didn't stop for anything lest he be captured and have to return to that hellhole. He heard shots being fired and felt bullets whizzing past his body, but that only doubled his fear and made him run even faster. He was thankful that gravity was on his side and he was on a downward slope, so he was running even faster than he would have in any other situation._

'_Just keep running,' he thought. 'They can't chase you forever. They'll give up eventually. Just keep. Running!"_

_He didn't know how deep in the trees he was or how far he had to go before he reached another road or some sign of civilisation other than the camp which was receding out of sight. He didn't know how much stamina Johann had left or whether he would be able to keep going for long. All he knew was that he needed to run, and to be able to run, until he had reached safety._

"_It's no good!"_

_But instead, he fell to his knees._

"_Listen!" said Johann. "Listen, i-it's me they really want. I'm their lab rat. As far as they're concerned, you're just another failed experiment. They don't know who you are, and there's a lot more people waiting for you than there are for me. I'm going to lure them away. Then you'll at least stand a chance!"_

"_Wait," Russia said weakly, "no, Johann-"_

"_Find somewhere to hide," said the boy, "and if I don't find you in an hour, go on without me. Understand?"_

"_I-I don't…" choked Russia, and he went back to clutching his chest. "I don't usually… take orders from… f-from ordinary-"_

"_I'm not ordinary, remember?"_

_He tried to get up, but another wave of dizziness hit him in the head and he collapsed completely. The last thing he heard before he passed out was an adolescent shout of:_

"_Hey! Nazis!_ Deine Mutter saugt Schwänze in der Hölle!_"_

* * *

_When he woke up, it was dark._

_He didn't feel as dizzy anymore, but like he was burning. Like his head was on fire and about to explode from heat. His stomach felt as though it was pulsating inside his body and it made him feel sick, and his chest was aching like crazy. It felt like it could split open at any second._

"_Johann…" he groaned. He didn't know why, but somehow that name was significant._

_Then he remembered._

"_Johann?" he called, pulling himself onto his knees. "JOHANN?!"_

_There was no reply._

_Was he alive? Had he escaped the Nazis? Or had he been recaptured and taken back to the camp? Was he shot? Hanged?_

_He'd sacrificed himself…_

'_Johann,' Russia thought to himself, 'if you're still alive, I'm going to give you a Medal for Courage the moment I see you. I don't care if you're half-German. You're going to get one.'_

_When he looked up, he could see the night sky overhead with the moon on his right. So he was facing south. Good. That was the direction that had been indicated to him. But then again, if he were to travel far enough in _any_ direction, he was sure to come across civilisation sooner or later._

_So long as that direction wasn't north. It would only lead him back to the concentration camp._

_As he stood up, he felt an upsurge of nausea passing through his body and caught a tree before he fell over, but his stomach was already empty, so he was only dry-retching. After he was done coughing up saliva and bile, he wiped his mouth and started to walk._

_He had to survive. Johann was right: there _were_ people waiting for him. There were his allies. His subordinates. His sisters. His boss. His population. All those men and women and children…_

_No. Not the population. He couldn't survive without them, but the opposite wasn't true. They'd be fine._

_He hoped Johann was alright._

_Wait. The surface under his feet had changed._

_Was this… asphalt? It felt like it._

_Yes. It was. He had reached a road._

_But what if it only took him back to the camp? He wouldn't be able to survive if he had to go back._

_Which way should he go?_

_He couldn't keep this up. Even thinking was becoming a chore._

_He collapsed again, and the last things he heard and saw before he passed out were an approaching set of headlights stopping just before they hid his body and a rough, commanding voice saying "_Setzen Sie ihn in das Auto._"_

* * *

_He was in a car, lying on a back seat, and there were two people he could see: one in the driver's seat, another in the passenger's side. His head was resting on what felt like somebody's legs._

"Wir werden ihn so weit wie der Vichy-Grenze nehmen,_" said the voice from earlier, which was vaguely familiar to Russia's half-awake ears. "_ Von dort ist er auf seinem eigenen._"_

_The language was alien to him, but he recognised the word 'Vichy' as the region of France which was still unoccupied by Germany. He would be free there. He would be safe._

_But he wasn't able to stay awake._

* * *

_The surface beneath his body was cold, but not like the concrete of the cell from earlier. It felt more like a road, and there was a breeze ruffling his hair. He was outside._

_But his vision was still fuzzy and his face still felt hot. And his chest was hurting._

_Somebody walked over to him and tapped his forehead._

"Genau dort,_" he said. "_Genau zwischen die Augen. Das nächste Mal erwische ich dich in meinem Gebiet, das ist, wo ich mit dem Ziel bin. Verstehen Sie?_"_

_He didn't know what he was being asked, so he had no idea how he should reply._

"Verstehen Sie?_"_

'_I can't answer,' was what he wanted to say. 'I don't know what you're saying!'_

_His forehead was prodded again._

"_Right there," said the now completely familiar voice in English. "Right between your eyes. If I catch you in my territory again, that's where I'm aiming. Understand?"_

_He took a deep breath._

"_Understand?!"_

"_D-Da," Russia choked, "I understand."_

_Germany stood up and walked out of sight, and as the car doors slammed closed and the vehicle drove away, Russia's strength failed him for the last time and his eyelids slowly slid closed, and he was all too willing to give way and fall into the darkness._

* * *

**I had to do so. Much. God. Damned. RESEARCH. For this chapter. I'd already figured out what I wanted to do and what kind of person Johann would be and what he would look like, but I had to find a concentration camp where the Nazis conducted experiments (Natzweiler seemed like the best because it wasn't particularly deep in Axis territory and was the only camp in France - set up as a labour camp due to the presence of pink granite) and then I had to look up the layout and whether an escape like Russia's would be possible, and then I had to look up the symptoms of blood rejection and… ugh, this was almost as difficult to write as the foot washing scene from the previous chapter (which, I should point out, has NO religious significance whatsoever). Especially since I've never written this much from a single character's point of view outside SoulHeta, let alone for someone who is essentially a supporting character. On the plus side, it made my history class a little easier when we had to split into pairs and do a presentation on a concentration camp.**

**In case you're wondering, the italics are because it's a flashback. ****I should point out that this was written _loooooooooooong _before I watched/read Black Butler, so any similarities to Finny's backstory are completely coincidental. However, I can admit that the injection scene was inspired by Wrath's transformation in FMA.**

**As usual, no translator notes. I'm hoping it adds to the alien atmosphere of this part of the story: the fact that Russia (poor guy) is trapped in a place which he doesn't know anything about, which doesn't agree with him in any way and he has no idea what's going on or what the people around him are saying. If you were stuck in Germany and didn't know how to speak the language, wouldn't you be frightened out of your pants?**

**Except I will say that this chapter's title is Russian and means 'Stolen Blood' which seems quite appropriate.**

**And now I present another challenge to my readers: see if you can figure out how Johann Ivanov is significant in this 'verse in a way that doesn't relate to Russia. I think I should mention that I did my best to avoid making him a Mary Sue and I hope you see him as a believable character – I ran him through the Mary Sue Litmus Test and he got 18, so I guess that's a good sign.**

**And as you're leaving, if you maybe want to leave a review, th-that would be... quite nice...**


	10. An Unwarrented Attack

**Somewhere near Berlin, 70 years later**

Silence.

That was all there seemed to be.

It was understandable, of course. Nobody had any idea what to say.

What would you say? If somebody had just confessed one of their deepest and darkest secrets to you, how would you respond?

Eventually, somebody made a move. Italy jumped forward from where he had been seated next to Germany and pulled Russia into a tight hug, which the larger nation was only too glad to return.

"Well…" said England, "that was… interesting."

"_Oui_, you can say that again," said France.

"_Mein Gott_," Germany muttered. "I haven't thought about Natzweiler in years. I still find it hard to believe that my own people could have committed such atrocities against each other, let alone my own boss. They should have turned him out!"

"I agree," said China. "The people can survive without a leader, but a leader is nothing without his people-aru."

There was a pause as this gem of wisdom sank in.

"You stole that from Fullmetal Alchemist," Japan stated flatly not even bothering to look at China.

"Wha? No I didn't-aru!"

"_Hai_, I am positive you did."

"Whatever," said America. "Who cares about that? What, _this_ doesn't mean anything to you? It turns out Russia got weapon powers from some terrified kid back in the War and you don't even care about that?"

"Of course I do!" said China. "Russia has been one of my closest allies, since he grew up at least-aru! What I would like to know is why he didn't mention the fact that Johann was in possession of weapon abilities!"

"We got out," said Russia, who was still hugging Italy like an overlarge teddy bear. "We escaped. That's all that matters, da?"

Come to think of it, he was right in a way.

"I am sorry," said Germany. "All I was told was that there had been a disturbance in a work camp and that there was an attempted escape. Had I known it was you, I would have mounted an operation and done my best to shut down the system. At the time, I did not think much to finding you passed out by the side of the road: I only assumed you had drunk too much vodka."

"We're so sorry," said Italy quietly. "You were treated so badly…"

"Do you have any idea as to what became of Johann?" asked England. "Whether he survived or was captured and experimented on some more, or ended up in a mass grave, or just another stack of bones tossed to an ossuary?"

"What?" said America. "The Nazis fed their dead prisoners to Australian birds?"

"That's a _cassowary_, you stupid Yank. An ossuary is a depository for bones, often used to make space in overfilled graveyards, and yes: they are very morbid and disturbing."

"_Nyet_, I have no idea," said Russia as Italy released him and sat down next to Germany again. "I am hoping that he was succeeding at the surviving and managed to get somewhere safe, but it is more likely he was recaptured and executed, if not shot the moment he was seen. To think: I barely knew him, yet he sacrificed himself to save me."

"Pretty pointless, since you wouldn't have died anyway," America chimed in.

"It is thought that counts-aru!" cried China. "Perhaps you would think differently if it was you who watched him jump from plane and break his back-aru! I don't know how he got to Nats… Natez… that place, but he may not have returned alive!"

"So what?" asked England. "You're saying he should be _glad_ that Nazis captured him and ripped his chest open?"

"If they had not found him, would he be sitting here right now?" asked France bitterly.

"And YOU can shut up, frog!"

"Oh really? So _Angleterre_ is allowed to voice his opinions whenever he likes, but the rest of us are to remain silent?"

"Not everybody, just you and your fat froggy face!"

"Fat froggy face? May I remind you, _ma petite salope Anglais_, that only a few short years ago, this was the one face which you could not get enough of!"

"Yes, and then I broke it off because I came to my senses and realised that it doesn't matter how good you are at kissing due to the fact that you are a stupid randy wanker who'd hump a park bench if it was good looking enough!"

"Guys, why did you have to bring _that_ up?" America interjected.

"What do you care, America?" England demanded. "You weren't too bothered, you were in New York with that little mystery girl of yours, what was her name again? Aggie? Anne? Amy?"

"It was Amanda, you jerk! And FYI, she was a really nice woman! Had all her DVDs divided by director and genre and everything!"

"She was a prostitute, you moron!"

"Only because she didn't have any money!"

"Will the three of you just SHUT UP?! This is my house and I cannot stand to have the three of you _ARGUING ALL THE TIME!_"

Silence fell once again, as it usually did when Germany got up and started shouting.

"Are you not content with disrupting the annual meetings?" he asked as he sat down again. "We have more important matters to discuss than an Anglo-French romance story! From what I can gather, there are three of us present with weapon-related abilities, and that is myself, America and now Russia. There may possibly be more out there that we do not know about, but for now, let's deal with the ones we have already discovered. My weapon form is a spear and America is a bayonet. Russia, what is yours?"

Russia gulped. Even _he_ was frightened of the angry Germany.

"I do not know," he confessed.

"Ve~ what do you mean, you don't know?" asked Italy nervously. "In all these years, you didn't try to transform?"

"_Nyet_," said Russia with a shake of his head. "I can't if I do not know how, da?"

"But it can't be hard," said Italy, who appeared to strangely knowledgeable at the moment. "Ve~ Liz and Patty could do it really quickly and they didn't have any trouble, and they're only teenagers! Not just that, but humans! I mean, maybe they've had lots of practise, but…"

"But what?" asked Germany. "What is bothering you?"

Italy suddenly clapped his hands over his face in a futile attempt to hide himself.

"I'm so sorry!" he cried. "I know you all expect me to know a lot about this because of how close I am to Kid and because I actually got to know him and spent some time in Death City, but I swear I hardly know anything! Sure, we trade letters every couple of weeks and all, but I never thought to ask him how weapon powers work or how soul wavelengths are supposed to work, I just- I know some stuff, but not a lot, I swear!"

By the sound and look of him, he was on the verge of tears.

"I'm sorry," he said again, "I- I need a moment, okay?"

He got up and left.

"Poor guy," America commented. "Can't blame him for wanting to get out."

"What happened to his feet-aru?" asked China.

"_Hai_, I am wondering why he is wearing bandages up to his ankles," said Japan.

Germany explained about the events of the morning: how he had woken up to find Italy missing, how he had walked out to see his brother with barely any clothes on and no foot protection of any kind, and how he had thankfully been found by Austria and told him, on the way back, about how Romano had made another attempt on his life.

"Fool," England muttered.

"Don't be harsh on him, _Angleterre_," said France. "Personally, I find it heartbreaking that after everything that's happened, after all these years and now seemingly the ultimate culmination of Romano's hatred for him, Italy is still hopelessly devoted to his elder brother."

"I disagree," said Germany. "He is torn between that which you have stated and his knowledge of Romano's resentment of him. Austria seems to have set him back on the right track, but Faust knows how long that shall last. I decided it may be best for him to stay with me not only because he may find it difficult to return home, but to keep an eye on him and make sure he does not do himself any harm."

"Then perhaps someone should retrieve him," said Japan, standing up. "As a former comrade of Italy-kun, I willingly volunteer my services for this task."

"_Danke_."

After he had left, a small smile made an appearance on Russia's face.

"Russia?" said China. "What is it-aru?"

"I sometimes wonder," said Russia, "if Johann ever had descendants, would any of them look like him?"

"_Kesesesesesesese…_"

All eyes fell upon Prussia, who up until this point had been standing, all but forgotten, in the doorway. He had heard everything.

"You guys are all total _idioten_," he commented. "Why would you spend so long hung up on the past? For me, it was awesome, but for you guys it all totally sucked ass! Just forget it already and stop depressing the _scheiße_ out of me."

"Awesome, was it?" asked Germany. "Exactly how many enemies did you make for yourself?"

Prussia, to put it bluntly, deflated.

"Why is my little _bruder_ so mean?" he asked.

* * *

"Italy-kun?"

He was in the kitchen, standing with his back to the door, when Japan finally tracked him down. He wasn't moving. Not even swaying slightly on his feet, which must have been causing him pain. Or _anything_.

"Italy-kun, are you alright?" the elder nation inquired.

He didn't receive a reply.

"There is no need for you to be afraid," he continued regardless. "Nobody said that they would be expecting you to be an expert on this sort of thing, especially since it is only recently that it has been brought to light. Why Germany-san felt the need to keep his secret for so long is a mystery to me, but you seem to know as much about it as the rest of us do (if perhaps a _little_ more) so there wouldn't be any point in interrogating you. Do you understand?"

Still Italy remained silent. It was as though he didn't even know Japan was there.

"Italy-kun, is something wrong?" asked Japan.

"_Si_," said Italy at last, but his voice sounded distant and eerie. "There is something wrong."

The black-haired man's fingers curled around the handle of his katana…

"_You're alive_."

…and whipped it out of its sheath just in time to block the knife which was hurled in his direction.

"Italy," he muttered, not bothering with the honorific if not simply forgetting it out of surprise, "what do you…"

Before he knew what was going on, Italy was upon him with a second knife clasped tightly in his hand and an expression on his face as though he were possessed by a demon. His normally bright and round eyes were dark and slanted with rage, his teeth gritted in a terrifying snarl, his nostrils flaring like a bull that was about to charge. It was all Japan could do to jump out of the way and avoid the blade that was thrust repeatedly in his direction: just one half of a second later and his upper body would have been carved open. He strengthened his grip on his sword and began to block the attacks, doing everything in his power to avoid hitting his comrade.

"Italy!" he cried, his shock allowing him a little more volume than he usually used. "Italy, what has come over you? Stop this at once!"

"No!" shouted Italy. "No, I won't! Not until you're dead!"

He seized a frying pan from out of the cupboard and swung it clumsily at Japan's head, but unfortunately for him, the elder nation had reflexes that had been tempered with time and he sliced clean through the cooking utensils handle.

"You are my friend, Italy-kun!" Japan said, quickly become desperate. "I do not want to hurt you, I swear! There's something wrong with-"

Holding the knife in a backhand grip, Italy swung it towards Japan's head and found it blocked by the katana. They found themselves at a physical impasse, each participant in the fight pressing as hard as they could with their respective blades.

It came to an end when Italy reached forward with his free hand, seized Japan around the neck and started to squeeze. Almost instantly, the elder nation became more focused on trying to breathe than trying to prevent himself from getting stabbed, and his mind began to fill with panic. He dropped his katana and started to claw at Italy's fingers, but to no avail.

"Italy…" he choked. "No… please… _stop_…"

Usually, when Italy smiled, it was cheerful and heartwarming and undoubtedly endearing, but this time it was disturbing and full of malice, and generated an air of twisted sadism. It only became more frightening when he pierced Japan's cheek with his knife and carved his face open, carefully following the scar that was already there, all the time squeezing his neck tighter and tighter.

It wouldn't have been so dangerous if Italy was only a human, but both of them were nations. There was a very real chance that one of them was about to die, and it certainly wasn't him.

"…no…" Japan gasped. "…_please_…"

Right now, all he could feel was the pain in his cheek and the hot, thick fluid trickling down his jaw and onto Italy's fingers that were clamped around his throat and crushing the life out of him, and all he could see was that snarling face and a knife which was getting just a little bit too close to his eye, and was on the verge of puncturing his skin once more-

_**THWACK**_

-and suddenly, Italy fell off him and collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Japan stumbled backwards into the wall and slid to the floor, gulping in greedy lungfuls of air and almost choking on his own throat.

"Japan!"

His ears barely registered the sound of something soft yet heavy hitting the ground next to him, but he could definitely feel a warm hand patting his cheek.

"Japan," said a familiar voice. "Japan, are you alright-aru? Look at me! LOOK AT ME!"

He tried to focus on the person before him.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" they demanded. "Tell me, Japan, how many-aru?!"

"Th…Three…" Japan wheezed.

China sighed in relief.

"Thank god," he breathed, and pulled the shorter man into a hug. "I was afraid I'd lost you again!"

Normally Japan would have pushed him away, but right now he was a bit too tired from fighting for his life. It was all he could do to rub China's back, mutter reassurances, and try his best not to choke to death all by himself.

* * *

There was cold metal around Italy's wrists when he woke up, and he was lying down with his arms above his head. He tried to pull them down to rub his eyes, but found that they wouldn't move, and when he looked up he saw that his hands were cuffed to a pipe, but he almost didn't: it was dark and cold and his body was shivering.

He started to panic. Where was he? What had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was trying to kill Japan and-

Oh no.

Oh… _NO._

No, no, no, no, no!

He rattled the chain against the pipe, hoping to maybe pull it out of the wall and free himself before all the bad memories started to come back-

A light flicked on and there was the unmistakable click of a handgun being cocked. When he looked up, England was standing next to the door with his hand still on the light switch and a pistol pointed in his direction.

"No point in doing that, I'm afraid," he said in a cold, emotionless tone. "Germany and America made doubly sure that pipe was fixed to the wall properly before they put you there, and those cuffs are from the kraut's 'special' collection so I'm willing to bet that they're secure."

When he looked again, Italy realised that he was in a bathroom with his hands cuffed to a pipe which led from a sink to into the wall. It was dark outside now, and he could hear raindrops pattering lightly yet relentlessly against the window. The cold was most likely because of the ceramic tiles under his body and the fact that he still wasn't wearing anything other than his coat, boxers and bandages. True to England's word, no matter how much he rattled the cuffs around, he was unable to free himself.

"J-Japan!" he cried.

"No," said England flatly, "I'm England. God knows why I had to be the one who drew the short straw."

"N-No, not that," said Italy. "Japan, is he alright? Is he alive? Please tell me! Please!"

"He's fine, no thanks to you," England said as he sat down next to the struggling prisoner. "You really went all out, didn't you? He's incredibly shaken up. Then again, I'm willing to bet you don't even remember what I'm-"

"_Si_, I do!" cried Italy. "I remember everything, I-I grabbed a knife and I threw it at him and then I grabbed another knife and I tried to kill him and I- and I strangled him and cut open his face and I… no, what have I done? Oh God no, what have I DONE?!"

"Get a grip!" commanded England. "Didn't I just tell you that he was alive?"

"I know, I know, b-but I-" Italy sniffed. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm really, _really_ sorry. I couldn't control myself, I swear! I wanted to stop, I really did, but it was like something else was controlling my body and my mind and I just couldn't stop! You know I would never EVER try to hurt Japan, let alone kill him! He's my friend! A-at least, I think he's my friend, but I can never really tell what he's thinking, but why would I hurt him? Please, I'm sorry!"

"And I believe you," said England, "but we can't be sure you won't do it again, so until further notice, you're going to stay here."

"I don't know what happened, I swear!" said Italy. "I was afraid of being judged and people would be upset because they expected me to know loads about kishins and weapons and meisters when I actually don't, I only know as much as Kid's told me and that isn't really very much – I'm not an expert on this sort of thing! And I swear I have no idea what happened!"

By now he was practically hysterical, but appeared to have run out of tears. It was awful to hear, let alone see, especially as he was still writhing in the rattling restraints that bound him to the sink.

After a few moments, he just… stopped.

"Crying isn't going to do me any good, is it?" he asked. "It's sometimes helped me in the past, but I'm a grown up now, right? It'll just look silly."

England stared.

"Are you alright?" he asked nervously. "I admit that I think it's about time you said something like that, but when you those words it in that context, it is quite, _quite_ unnerving."

Italy just… looked at him. His face was completely blank.

"The back of my neck hurts and I'm thirsty," he said. "I haven't had anything to drink today. Could I please have some water?"

England rubbed his head.

"Can't believe I got pulled into this," he sighed. "Alright, fine. Wait here and I'll get you a cup."

All Italy did was nod.

"G-Good," said England, and left the room with a sigh of relief.

Maybe it was because he'd grown so used to him being so cheerful and happy-go-lucky, if not just downright happy all the time, but whenever Italy did _not_ act this way, things quickly became disturbing. Especially like back there, where he had looked and sounded like every drop of emotion had been removed from his body. It was understandable if he really did remember how viciously he had attacked Japan and truly regretted his actions – and it really hadn't been very long since that dreadful night – and England was now beginning to have serious concerns for his mental stability.

He started to walk to the kitchen, mind overflowing with theories and hypotheses.

'He's been through so much in the past year,' he thought. 'There was the attack which led him to that Kid character, and who-knows-what that took place while he was in Death City, and then there was the Atlantis Incident, and now all of this. It's strange how he started changing after he met that boy: it was refreshing at first for him to have become a little more serious, but now it's becoming unsettling. I'd even go as far as to say frightening. And all of that is on top of everything before those events – I know all of us have been through something similar, so maybe it's just disturbing me that he isn't taking it in stride like we usually do, or maybe it's because he really is starting to go the same way as Russia, but none of it explains why he would just attack Japan like that!'

"Hey Iggy, aren't you supposed to be guarding the psycho?"

He paused and glared at America.

"Italy is _not_ a quote-unquote psycho," he said. "You know that as well as I do."

"Then how do you explain what the hell happened earlier, huh?" America demanded. "Dude, in case you forgot, he tried to kill Japan. Hell, he almost did! How is that not psycho?"

"I know as much about this as everybody else," England pointed out, "that is to say, not a lot. While I do admit to the possibility of recent events taking a toll on Italy's mental health, I find it doubtful that he would attack anybody, let alone Japan (who, I might add, is a friend of his) without no kind of prior motivation or influence whatsoever."

"Influence?" said America. "You think someone might have made him do it or something? I guess it makes sense, but- ah jeez, this whole thing is a total mess."

"How is Japan, by the way?"

"Still kinda shaky. France is trying to sew up his face and China's trying to comfort him, but that's kinda hard 'coz he keeps trying to move away 'coz of his whole anti-touch thing. Apart from that, he's fine. What about the psycho?"

"_Italy_ woke up not too long ago," said England, making sure to put extra emphasis on the name. "He told me that he was thirsty, so I'm going to get a cup for him."

"The hell's wrong with you?" asked America. "What if he's trying to mess with your mind so you'll release him and then he'll go psycho again and kill everyone in the house?"

"My friend," England said, "this is Italy we're talking about."

America froze.

"Good point," he said.

"Now," said England, "if you'll excuse me, one of our own is in need of a drink and I don't care whether he's a murderer or not because of a little thing called common decency."

"Suit yourself," said America as he ducked back through the doorway. "If it was me, I'd have let him die of thirst."

England decided not to reply to this and simply on his way continued to the kitchen.

'And then there's _that one_,' he thought as he took a mug out of a cupboard, hoping Germany and Prussia wouldn't mind too much. 'What is it with him, what's in his head? Ever since we arrived in this country a couple of weeks ago, it's as though he's turned his clinginess up to eleven, trying to strike up a conversation every single time he sees me. And then there's the fact that the other day, he didn't even put a shirt on until I told him to. It's almost like he doesn't want anything except for me to notice him.'

He started walking back to the bathroom.

'And why would I respond to that?' he wondered. 'It's not as if I _like_ him or anything.'

When he reached the door, he paused.

'Do I?' he pondered.

"No, not a chance," he said out loud.

He pushed open the door.

"Alright," he said, "now Italy, I want you to co-opera-"

Now it was his turn to freeze, which would have been anybody's reaction when they opened the door and saw blood. It caused the mug to fall from his fingers and smash loudly on the ground.

"What the hell are you DOING?!" he shouted.

"LET ME GO!" screamed Italy, not ceasing in his scratching. "LET ME GO, PLEASE! PLEASE, ROMANO, LET ME GO!"

"Oh _god_," England muttered.

He snatched the key from where it had been deposited next to the sink, almost letting it slip from his fingers that were quivering in shock, and tried to wrench Italy's fingers away from his wrists, which was difficult due to the chain's length, or lack thereof.

"STOP IT!" he commanded.

"What is it?" asked America as he zoomed into the doorway. "England, are you _holy shit what the fuck is going on?!_"

"America, get me some bandages!" said England as he searched for the keyholes.

"But you-"

"Just do it!"

The urgency in his voice was all the persuasion the younger man needed to run away in search of medical materials.

"Either you keep still," he continued, "or I'm never going to be able to get these off. By which I mean stop trying to scratch your bloody hands off and STOP SQUIRMING!"

He had to kneel on Italy's legs in order to keep him still.

"Stop…" Italy sobbed, "I don't want this, please…"

"I AM _NOT_ TRYING TO **HURT YOU!**"

He fell silent, as if realising for the first time that it was England who was on top of him and not his elder brother.

"I'm trying to help you," England said, softly this time. "So keep still or you'll only end up even worse off than you already are."

Thanks to the new lack of movement, he was able to unlock the cuff on Italy's left hand and pull it forward to examine the damage. Because he hadn't been gone for very long, the prisoner hadn't had much time to cause anything deadly, but he had broken the skin on his wrist and there was plenty of blood. His nails weren't too sharp, so that probably helped.

"I can't make much out," said England. "Hang on."

He pulled the injured wrist up and over the sink Italy was sitting under, then turned on the tap and washed away the excess blood. Italy whimpered in pain, but didn't try to fight him off.

"It's not as bad as it looks," England informed him. "You haven't damaged any of your major nerves and arteries – it's not quite skin-deep, but close. A little over, I would say."

"I'm so sorry," muttered Italy.

"Just shut up," said England.

Italy bowed his head and held up his other blood-covered wrist as though he were an obedient child, and England removed the second cuff and rinsed his arm free of the drying red fluid.

"I got bandages," said America as he returned.

"Good," said England, "now do me a favour."

"Yeah?"

"Hold Italy still for me."

"Sure thing."

"What?!" cried Italy as he was pulled into the middle of the floor. "No, please don't hurt me, please I-!"

"I'm going to dress your wounds," said England. "I can't do that if you can't keep still. For Pete's sake, try to calm down."

'You're freaking me out like no tomorrow,' he thought. 'All I want is to get these bandages on and stop you complaining and you're acting as though I'm about to… to do to you what Romano did. Bollocks, that's why he was so upset! Good God, no wonder he's so terrified. Who knows what kind of memories have just been dredged up?!'

"Please…" Italy's voice had fallen to a whisper. "Whatever I did… I'm sorry… Romano… I'm sorry…"

"Romano's not here," said America, who had missed the point and was therefore rather confused. "You're in Germany's house, you're safe, so what the hell are you talking about?"

"America," said England as he started to bandage Italy's wrists, "I think we made a mistake by restraining him the way we did. From what I can tell, it would seem that it's the same way, or a similar way to which, that… well, there's no safe way of saying it while he's here, because it'll only hurt him more. I'll just say it had something to do with his brother."

"You mean he… oh crap," said America, realising their mistake. "Oh _crap_. Italy, I'm so… crap."

"Will you stop saying that?" England snapped, and fastened the bandage in the palm of Italy's hand. "How the hell were we supposed to know that it would trigger something like this?"

"I'm sorry," Italy murmured weakly. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I'm so… I'm sorry…"

"The hell am I supposed to do?" America whispered at England. "I know I'm supposed to be mad at him for trying to kill Japan, but right now he's just so… so… what's a good word to describe him right now?"

"Pitiful?"

"Yeah, that. I should hate his guts, but instead I just feel sorry for him."

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… so sorry… I'm sorry… I'm so…"

"Done," said England, and finished on the second hand. "See? I never wanted to hurt you, I promise the thought never crossed my mind. Now calm down. Take a deep breath."

Italy sniffed hard.

'This is just like when I was taking care of my colonies,' England thought. 'Only a little more depressing and much more unsettling.'

"Feel better?" he asked.

Before he could react, Italy threw himself upon him. America was about to pull him away and England would have pushed him off, but then they realised it was only a hug. Italy was now sobbing into England's shoulder, and England couldn't think of anything to do other than return the embrace.

"Now come on," he said as they broke apart, "let's get you into some proper clothing."

* * *

**Holy SHIT, what the hell am I doing? I think by the time this story is over, Italy is going to have more mental scars than a zebra has stripes! What is it with me and my love for putting my favourite characters through the absolute worst kinds of hell? I know my usual argument is that it's for plot purposes, but… -.-**

**Is this pushing the T rating a bit too far, do you think? I was hoping that this entire series could get by with a T rating, but after the latest happenings (and considering what's still to come) I'm not really so sure anymore. But I don't want to push it up to an M because I want everyone to be able to read and enjoy it because writing and making people happy are two of the few things I'm good at!**

**Italy's gonna turn into the new River Tam at this rate. Or maybe Crona would be a more accurate comparison.**

**Caring England is best England. He's so cute when he's all responsible.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated, as usual. I always enjoy receiving feedback.**


	11. Rest

"_Mon dieu_, will you keep _still?!_"

With a sigh of frustration, China seized Japan's head and held it still so that France could focus on his needlework. Japan would have responded were it not for the fact that his face was being sewn shut.

"I cannot close this wound if you don't stop moving," France pointed out. "I know that you have problems with being touched, but at this point you do not have any choice!"

"Don't respond-aru," said China. "The movement will only hurt you more."

If he were able to speak, Japan would probably have told the two to back away and stop touching him, but as it was, he was stuck. So he resorted to shooting sour glares in their directions and hoping they wouldn't notice.

"Just so that we are perfectly clear," said France as he pushed the needle into Japan's skin as gently as possible, "you need not do anything to repay me for this, _Japon_. In fact, if you please, you may consider this repayment for your assistance nine months ago."

Brown eyes flew down to the Frenchman's right leg, and Japan gulped in an attempt to swallow his guilt.

"Please don't remind me of that place," China requested, shuffling away from the window and the darkness beyond it. "I am still having terrible nightmares about that place-aru. And the thought of darkness make me want to wet pants!"

"Which is why you need somebody to cuddle you, da?"

China glared at Russia accusingly, his face flushing redder than an overcooked raspberry.

"D-Don't say such things-aru!" he protested as the larger man smiled. "It is highly inappropriate! And France, you stop smiling as well or I will kick your ass to moon-aru!"

"Hey, do you _arschlochs_ think you can keep it down?"

They fell silent, and all eyes turned to the silver-haired nation who was seated with his arm wrapped around his little brother's shoulders – said brother was slumped forward with his face buried in his hand.

"_Izvinite_," Russia muttered.

"_Yíhàn_," added China.

"Just shut up," Prussia snapped. "You okay, West?"

Germany had no response. He hadn't spoken a single word to anybody since he had assisted with the imprisoning of Italy in his bathroom. Out of all the people in the house that night, he was taking it the worst. He had refused to believe it was true until he had seen the state of Japan, and until now he had been remaining as stoic as possible. Everyone could tell it was just a mask.

"So well," he murmured incoherently. "He was doing _so well_..."

"_Ja_," said Prussia bitterly. "Just when it looked like he was going to be alright, this had to go and happen, didn't it?"

"Don't make it sound like you blame Japan!" cried China. "Italy almost killed him-aru! Who knows what might have happened if I had not found them in time? It's not like Italy is human – he could have killed him permanently-aru!"

"There," said France, and he tied off the thread and cut it. "Do not open your mouth too wide or else you might tear your face open."

"_Arigato_," Japan mumbled.

"How do you feel-aru?" asked China. "How is your neck? Is it still sore-aru? Do you want something for-?"

"No," said Japan in a still-slightly-croaky voice. "I am fine. Really. No cause for worry. Although I still can't believe Italy is capable of attacking so viciously. It certainly is not something that I would like to be my final sight."

"I saw his eyes," China said quietly. "Only briefly, just before I knocked him out-aru. They were… _demonic_. Whatever that was, it wasn't Italy-aru."

"_Oui_, but I wish I could believe it," France said solemnly.

"Italy is fragile person, da?" asked Russia. "It may not take much to make him snap. And then there is his past…"

"Shut up."

Once more, everyone looked at Germany.

"Just…" He was obviously trying to express his feelings without looking ridiculous. "Just shut up."

To everyone else in the room, he was making it very clear (without even trying) that he was as torn as the person he was upset about. He didn't know whether to try to forgive Italy, understanding that he was most likely influenced by something and taking into account his prior feelings for him, or furious with him for betraying them and trying to take someone's life with no motivation or reasoning. He was beginning to understand how Italy wouldn't know what to do, say or think, even though he hadn't even been involved in the fight.

"He must've been out of his mind," Prussia said reassuringly. "Can't have been something he chose to do. Right, _bruder?_"

"_Ja_, r-right," said Germany, but he didn't believe it one bit. He didn't really know what to believe.

There was a click as the door opened and America entered the room.

"Better brace yourselves," he said in a surprisingly serious tone. "He's coming down."

"What?" cried China, pulling Japan into a protective and unauthorised hug. "You released him-aru?! Are you out of mind or just stupid? What if he goes berserk and tries to kill us _all_-aru?!"

"Trust me," said America as he sat, cross-legged, on the floor. "That ain't gonna happen anytime soon. All that commotion you heard earlier was… well, Iggy's bringing him now, so you'll see for yourself. Be nice, okay?"

"I'll decide for myself if I'm nice or not," China said bitterly as Japan squirmed out of his grip.

They sat and waited, quickly growing impatient at the lack of missing nations.

And then they heard it.

"…no, this way… this way, come on… it's alright, don't be afraid, nobody's going to hurt you… they aren't, I promise you, you'll be fine… I know you're sorry, now come on…"

It was amazing how soft and kind England could sound when he wanted to, and it was usually only around children and some of the youngest nations that he was particularly fond of. To hear him talking like this to somebody who was probably around the same age as him was nothing short of astounding.

But it became more understandable when Italy came into earshot:

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I'm so… I'm sorry… so sorry…"

"I understand that you're sorry and I'm sure the others will believe you. Nothing to be frightened of, I swear. Almost there, come on…"

He sounded almost like a father caring for a terrified young son. Any moment now he was probably going to start disproving the presence of monsters in the wardrobe and under the bed.

He pushed the door open and entered, revealing that he was escorting Italy via an arm around his shoulders and trying rather hard to retain his grip. The smaller man was shivering uncontrollably, even though he was now wearing a lot more clothing than he had before, and his eyes were only half open, staring blankly into space and flickering every now and then. There were no tears – he was too worn out for that, and this coupled with the bandages and obvious pain to his feet meant that he was visibly wavering and barely able to stand. He kept wiping his bandaged hands on his shirt as if expecting to remove something, even though there was nothing there. His breaths were short and shallow and came only occasionally.

He fell silent and stopped muttering once he had entered the room, perhaps sensing that there were other people there and wanting to appear stronger than he actually was or maybe just terrified, which was more likely.

Japan stood up.

"Italy-san," he said slowly, "are you alright?"

The younger man looked up at him. The movement was slow and shaky, as though it was taking every ounce of effort and energy just to lift his head. He remembered what he had done – that much was clear. His normally sparkling-with-life eyes were dull and practically lifeless. Thanks to this new addition, he generally looked like a corpse that had been reanimated, but the person who revived him had made a mistake somewhere along the line and he had come back wrong.

"I'm sorry, Japan," he whispered. "Everybody, I-I'm so sorry. I just don't know what happened or what came over me. Y-You're my friends, all m-my best friends a-and you know I'd never hurt you, n-not deliberately. I don't know what happened to me and I… I… I'm… I-I'm really scared."

"_You're_ scared?!" China shouted angrily. "How hell did you think I felt when I saw you killing Japan-aru? I don't think you have right to say things like-"

"Dude, back off," said America, equally as angry as he pushed the eldest nation away. "Take a look at him. Go on. Does he look like he'd wanna kill anyone? Does he?"

As China looked him over, Italy fell to his knees and stared blankly at the floor.

"I'm so scared," he muttered. "I don't know what's happening to me… I feel like… like I'm… I'm going crazy… I'm losing my mind… I know it, I… I'm going insane, I'm losing it… I'm sorry, everyone… I'm so sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

If he was crying, the spectacle would probably have been a little less pitiful or maybe a little more understandable. He looked as though his mind had just… _bluescreened_.

Japan slowly walked up to him and he didn't move one little bit apart from muttering.

"Italy-san, I'm alright," he said. "In the long run, you did not do as much damage as it would appear, no matter what China-nii says. You don't have to worry about me. You never did in the first place and there's no need to start now."

He gently rested a hand on the top of Italy's head, still receiving no response.

"Whatever is happening to you," he said, "I'm sure that you will be fine. You will come out stronger in the end. Is that not how we operate?"

It was eerie how Italy didn't even look up at him. He didn't even acknowledge Japan's presence or the fact that he was surrounded by fellow nations. He simply knelt there, staring emptily at the floor and muttering the same few words over and over again.

"I know you would never hurt me if you were in your right mind," Japan stated. "Now could you please stop saying that? You're starting to make me more than a little nervous."

At his request, Italy fell silent, but that was all he did. His lips were still forming themselves around the words and he was still staring blankly ahead at nothing.

With a small sigh, Germany stood up and helped Italy to his feet.

"Why don't you take a shower?" he suggested. "I'm sure you will feel much better afterwards. I can make you some food for when you get out as I am certain you have not eaten today. How does that sound?"

Italy gulped and gave a small nod – so small that it was barely noticeable – and Germany led him out of the room.

Almost everyone heaved a massive sigh of relief.

"That is the single most unpleasant thing I have ever had to experience in my whole life," France stated, "and I have eaten England's pancakes when he has a hangover!"

"Good god," said China, trying to hide his horrified face behind his hand. "You really weren't kidding-aru. I mean, I-I want to be angry at him, but y-you all saw him, didn't you? I don't think I've ever seen someone so…"

"_Da_," said Russia. "I fear he may be turning into me."

"Nah, nobody's as messed up as you," Prussia quipped, which earned him an angry and quite frankly terrifying glare and made him hide ineffectively behind a couch cushion as the larger nation muttered something nightmarish and murderous under his breath.

"You know," said America while this was going on, "when you think about it, isn't all the stuff that's happening to Italy not that different from all the stuff that's happened to like, all of us?"

"That's as may be," said England, "but you know that Italy's probably the most sensitive out of all of us. You could tell him his hair's a mess and he'll burst into tears. It's only gotten worse since he met the Grim Reaper's son – I wouldn't be surprised if the kid's given him some kind of complex."

"You should not take any _shinigami_ for granted," said Japan in a tone of warning. "Neither insult one at any given time. Even the younger ones could take your life in the blink of an eye and not think anything of it."

"Yeah, and how many times have you watched that toilet cleaner show in the past few months to know that?" asked America.

"I think you mean Bleach."

"Whatever."

"I'm not so certain about that," said France. "You may not have known Italy for as long as I have, so I do not blame you for not knowing this, but if he does not surrender to a person who is stronger than him, he shall instead treat them as though they were family to him. He would worship a butterfly if it would allow him to have some pasta."

He cast his eyes to the door.

"When you think about it," he said, "it's unthinkable that he would ever try to take a life. So why would he try to kill Japan?"

* * *

There was steam curling out from under the door, and Germany silently hoped that Italy wasn't trying to drown himself or scald himself to death. He'd told himself that if the water-splattering noises went on for longer than ten minutes, he would go in there and check on him, no matter what state of dress he was in. There were _blades_ in that room.

He wondered if he would ever be able to accept what was happening. The person who held his affections, even though he had no idea that this was so, was traumatised to the point of no return – perhaps even beyond. He had no idea if he would ever see the old Italy again or if he felt the same way about Germany as Germany did about him. What made it worse was that he was _literally_ only just beginning to get better, and he doubted that he would be able to bring Austria in for another pep talk.

He checked his watch. The ten minutes were almost up. As he was reaching for the handle, the water noises suddenly stopped.

"Italy?" he said. "Are you finished?"

He didn't receive any response, but the shower's taps had no possible way to turn off by themselves, which meant he had to assume that Italy was alright for the moment.

"I have a fresh set of clothes for you, but they belong to Prussia, so they may be a little loose on you. Is that alright?"

Still no reply.

"I am going to come in now, so please make sure that you are decent."

The lack of reply was beginning to worry him, so he opened the door and entered the room.

Italy was standing, dripping wet with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, in front of the sink where he had been restrained (there were still some splatters of dried blood on the floor beneath his feet). He was holding a pair of scissors in his trembling hands and staring at them intently.

"Italy, what do you think you are doing?" asked Germany.

His question went ignored. Somehow, even though almost his entire body was shaking, Italy opened the scissors.

"Close those scissors and put them back where you found them," Germany commanded, trying to sound calm and reasonable while at the same time being terrified out of his mind. "Whatever you are thinking of, Italy, do NOT do it! Listen to me and put those scissors down!"

Italy wasn't listening. He gulped and started to raise the blades to the left side of his head-

"STOP!"

Germany dropped the clothes he had been holding, charged forward and seized the scissors, but Italy didn't want to let go in a hurry.

"NO!" he screamed. "NO, LET IT GO! LET IT GO! LET IT GO, LET IT GO, LET IT GO! I have to cut it off! I HAVE TO! _**I HAVE TOOOO!**_"

"You are only harming yourself even more, now STOP!"

With one mammoth tug, he wrenched the scissors from Italy's fingers and threw them out through the door, then pulled the smaller man close and hugged him tightly, ignoring how he screamed loud enough to wake the dead and pounded his fists into his chest.

"I HAVE TO CUT IT OFF! I HAVE TO CUT IT OFF! LET ME GO! LET ME GO, GERMANY, LET ME _GO!_ I HAVE TO CUT IT OFF! I HAVE TO CUT IT… I have to cut… I have to… I have… I…"

"Tell me what's wrong," said Germany. "Why do you have to cut off your curl?"

"It's _him_," Italy moaned, sobbing into the larger man's neck. "All I can see is him. All I can think about is him. All I can hear is him, screaming at me, swearing at me, calling me a bastard and I don't know why! I should be moving on! Austria told me I should be moving on! I have to cut it off because I have to forget him! I don't want… I don't want to… I don't want him to haunt me anymore… and I don't want him to be in my mind anymore because… because I'm starting to turn into him, aren't I? I… I tried to kill Japan… and I almost did… just like _he_ nearly killed me… and I have no idea what happened or why I did it and I'm so scared of myself and I'm so sorry! I'm going crazy and I'm so sorry!"

"You're not going crazy," said Germany, trying to ignore how Italy's towel had fallen to his feet. "And you're not turning into your brother. I know that you would never attack Japan without some kind of outside influence. He's your friend. Tell me, would you willingly try to hurt him?"

"No!" cried the distraught Italy. "I would never hurt Japan! He's one of my best friends! What's happening to me, Germany? I feel like I'm losing control, I'm losing my mind! Please! HELP MEEE!"

"I can," said Germany softly. "Now listen: I don't want you to hold it back, Italy. I can tell that you have been supressing your feelings and that can lead to real mental damage, so I am not surprised if you feel as though you are losing your grip on reality. Don't hold it back. Let it out. Let it all out."

He didn't know how long he stood there in the centre of the room, clutching the smaller man's naked body and listening to him as he screamed his heart out into the steam filled air. He was so loud that he could probably be heard on the moon- no, on the sun, and it almost bowelled him over that there was just _so much_. It could have been an hour, maybe two, maybe even a whole day – all he knew was that he stood stock still, hugging the screaming Italy until he finally ran out and sobbed silently into his chest, and eventually even that came to a halt.

"Thank you, Germany," he said. "I… I feel better somehow."

"It's nothing," said Germany, and he pulled Italy away to look him in the eye, "and I'm sorry I had to put you through that. It's not your fault that you've had one hell of a day already. We can call Kid in the morning, I am sure he can tell us something that could be of use. Now come on. Give me a smile. Show me some of the old Italy that we all know and love."

Italy looked up, nervous at first, but he seemed reassured once he realised that no harm was going to come to him and his face split into one of the widest, brightest smiles he had ever accomplished in his life. It was so big that he couldn't even keep his eyes open.

"Good," said Germany. "Now… um…"

"Ve~ what's wrong, Germany?"

The larger man stepped away, blushing furiously.

"Before you do anything else," he said as he picked up the garments he had dropped, "will you _please_ put some clothes on?"

He held them out, glaring intently in the opposite direction, and Italy took them and quickly dressed himself. When Germany looked back at him, he had to keep from visibly choking: the sight of the small, already completely adorable young man in those overlarge clothes almost gave him a heart attack.

"Hey Germany?"

"_Ja?_"

"I'm still thirsty. England dropped your cup and broke it before I could have a drink."

"Very well. Come with me and we shall get you a drink."

* * *

"Will you at least _try_ to be careful? Just take a look, you're spilling it everywhere!"

"I'm sorry, Germany, but I still can't seem to stop shaking."

"Let me help you, then."

"Ve~ okay."

Holding the cup in one hand, Germany wrapped his other around Italy's shoulders and held him steady while placing the cup at his lips. He tipped it gently, trickling the water into the other's mouth, but had to force Italy's hands down when he tried to tip it up further.

"You cannot drink too quickly," he stated. "If you try, you shall only make yourself choke."

"Oh-hay!" He was unable to say 'okay' because of the cup.

He kept drinking until the cup was empty and sighed in satisfaction.

"_Grazie_," he sighed. "Could I please have some more?"

Germany refilled the cup at the tap and helped Italy drink it, at which point the smaller man's shaking seemed to lessen. Once it was empty, he pushed the cup away and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"It's strange," he said. "I feel as though I'm just a child. Like I just came home from school after being bullied and you're my mother or something. But why are there these dents in the table?"

"That is from my outburst at Prussia the other day," Germany informed him. "I make no secret that I allowed my emotions to take me over, and it is something that I have come to regret."

Italy gently felt the dips in the wood, a curious expression on his face. He looked thoughtful.

"What would you do if I attacked you, Germany?" he asked. "If I tried to kill you, would you fight me? Would you try to kill me too?"

His tone was making Germany unnerved, and the larger man decided it would be best to try to answer. If he didn't, Italy would probably grow suspicious of him and lose trust in him.

"You are my friend," he said, "so I would try my utmost to avoid hurting you, but otherwise I would incapacitate you by any means necessary. Is that the reply that you wanted to hear?"

Italy didn't look at him: just kept stroking the compressed and splintered woodwork.

"I guess," he said. "So… so you wouldn't kill me? Not even after all the fights we've had in the past?"

"The good vastly outweighs the bad," said Germany. "I know that our bosses may beg to differ, but as far as I am concerned, we have been friends for far longer than we have been enemies. I would render you incapable of causing harm, especially to yourself, but I would never take your life under any circumstances, not even if you tried your utmost to take mine. How about that? Is that a satisfactory answer?"

Before he could do anything else, Italy was upon him, wrapping him in a massive hug as he had too many more times to count.

"I wouldn't," he said fearfully. "I promise I wouldn't! I'd never deliberately hurt you, Germany! You're my best friend and the best friend I've ever had in my whole life and I promise that I could never bring myself to try to kill you! I'd have to be insane or something would have to be making me insane for me to do something like that! I keep telling you, I keep telling everyone, I don't understand what happened and I'm sorry, I swear it!"

"I do not know why you are so worried," said Germany as he placed an arm around Italy's shoulders. "I promise that I believe you. Calm down. Take a deep breath."

Italy sniffed hard and sighed.

"You've had a long day," Germany told him, "and you must be ridiculously tired. If every day was like this one, you most likely _would_ go insane, but tomorrow shall be a new day. Would you like to go to bed now? It's getting rather late."

The smaller man nodded and, after a rather large yawn, allowed his companion to pick him up and carry him out of the room.

"You've been so nice to me lately, Germany," Italy commented. "Do you just like taking care of me?"

"I do admit that I can think of a great many better things to do with my time," said Germany, "but at this moment, you need every single piece of help you can get your hands on. Besides which, I know that have to do something to repay you, or at least try my best."

"Repay me? What do you mean?"

"If I had realised how serious your situation was, I would have arrived sooner and possibly even managed to save you from harm, But instead, I found myself wondering if you were overreacting and your situation was not as bad as you made it sound. I apologise for my stupidity, it will never happen again."

"No, it's okay," said Italy, cuddling him around his neck. "I'm just sorry I made you worry. I should probably have called Spain when Romano came in, and maybe if I'd stayed in the room rather than walking out, I wouldn't have gone crazy and attacked Japan. Or if I did, you guys could have stopped me. I'm really sorry about everything that's happened!"

A deafening crash of thunder and a flash of lightning split the sky outside and he almost jumped out of Germany's arms.

"If you had something to apologise for, would I be caring for you as I am now?" Germany asked. "I never thought I would say this to you, but you should stop worrying so much. It is one of those rare cases when Austria was right about something, and you need to try to move forward. Especially if you are planning on being a meister."

"Huh?" Italy almost fell out of Germany's hold again. "How did you-"

"Don't try to lie," said Germany. "I saw that look in your eyes during that battle the other night. You liked what was happening and didn't want to give it up. If anything, I would almost go as far as to say you enjoyed it, until you actually started to fight, that is."

"I know," Italy replied. "I know I was scared and I know I'm weak. I'm going to get stronger, I promise!"

"But don't force yourself," Germany said as he nudged open the door to his bedroom. "If you do, you will only hurt yourself even more than you have already. For the moment, you need to rest."

He carefully (having some trouble balancing) moved the cover aside with his foot and laid Italy down on the bed.

"Hey, Germany? Wanna know something?"

"_Ja_, what is it?"

Italy gave him a peaceful smile.

"I'm happy," he said. "When I'm with you, I'm happy. I'm not sure if I get it, but you… you always make me happy even when you're not really doing anything or even speaking to me. Just the fact that you're here makes me happy."

Before Germany could reply, there was a knock at the door.

"Excuse me," said Japan as he entered, "I am sorry for intruding, but I wished to see that Italy-san was alright. Everybody heard the screaming earlier and it was more than a little unnerving to hear, especially since we didn't know what-"

"It's okay, Japan," said Italy, his voice slightly strained from exhaustion. "The screaming actually made me feel better, and now I'm… I'm just tired, and I want to sleep. Don't worry about me. Don't… don't worry…"

His eyes closed and his body became limp on the bed as he drifted off to sleep, a faint smile on his adorable face.

"He can be quite the load at times," Japan commented as he pulled the covers up over Italy's slumbering body. "You may find that you could have won the War if you had not spent so long making sure that he was safe."

"I know," said Germany, "but I don't care about that anymore. All that matters to me now is that he is safe."

"Forgive me for imposing, but I was correct in my assumption in the hospital, wasn't I?" Japan asked. "That you care for Italy-san more than you do for yourself, and that have gone so far as to fall in love with him. I can easily read the mood between you two and I can tell that I am right, so there isn't that much point in trying to object."

Germany bowed his head in shame and knelt down beside the bed, gazing wistfully at Italy's sleeping form.

"What in the world is wrong with me?" he asked. "Why did I have to fall in love with such a helpless _dummkopf?_ And how am I supposed to tell whether or not he feels the same way about me without completely humiliating myself in the process?"

"I am afraid I do not know how to answer that."

"Don't give me that kind of answer: I know for a fact that you have been particularly close to Greece for quite some time now and that you slept together not too long ago."

"Th-That was a dream!" said Japan, trying to be angry and quiet at the same time while still trying to retain his composure. "It was just a dream! And I'm so glad it was just a dream!"

"Will you be quiet?" Germany snapped. "You're going to wake him up!"

But it seemed he didn't have anything to worry about. Even with the combination of rain pouring onto the window, thunder rumbling in the clouds overhead and the two nations having their conversation, Italy was still snoozing gently in Germany's bed. His arm crept under the pillow and pulled it into a cuddle, but apart from a small sigh, that was all he did.

"I do admit," said Japan, "his mere presence is rather endearing."

"_Ja_," said Germany, "I know."

He gently moved the hair away from Italy's eyes and shifted the sheets up so that they were over his shoulder.

"Tell the others that they need not return to their hotel tonight," he said. "I wouldn't want them going out in this weather, or at this late hour. I have plenty of spare rooms they could use from my invading days. I do not ask for anything in return other than that they refrain from making noise."

"_Hai_, I can do that," said Japan with a small bow, "although I cannot guarantee they will obey your second request."

He turned around and left the two alone.

Germany shuffled closer to Italy and kissed him on the forehead.

"I love you so much," he muttered. "I just wish I could say it when you could hear it."

He turned away at that point, so he didn't notice as Italy's smile grew ever so slightly smaller.

* * *

**N'awww... as you can probably tell, the last bit was written not long after the Hetalia of the Dead episodes - the ones where Germany was looking adoringly at the sleeping Italy and I damn near squeed myself to death.**

**Not really sure how much I can say about this chapter, other than I'm really sorry for putting Italy through so many horrible things. I don't understand it - if I like a character in _anything_, there's a very strong chance that I'll sit and fantasize for hours about them going through some kind of horrible hell and being changed forever. Please say I'm not the only one who does this!**

******BTW I drew Johann. You'll find the pic if you go to my Tumblr (URL is the same as my username) and put 'hetalia' in the search bar.**

**As usual, reviews are appreciated. No challenges this time.**


	12. Up For A Spar

"_You… bastard…"_

_Germany fell to his knees, his scrabbling fingers clutching at his bleeding chest, then keeled over sideways and fell to the ground where his blood pooled around his body like an ocean of crimson._

"_I thought…" he choked. "I thought you… were my… my friend…"_

_He was gone, his only movement being a small trickle of scarlet from his lips._

_Italy stared down at his lifeless body in horror, breath catching in his throat as he tried to understand what was going on. His hand was covered in blood, as was the carving knife that was tightly held within it, until his fingers lost control and it clattered to the ground._

_When he looked up, what he saw was like something out of a horror movie. Everyone he knew lay on the ground in individual pools of blood, their bodies covered in stab wounds and not moving or breathing or doing anything except lying there, dead._

_He stumbled backwards, hoping to turn and run away, but his heels hit something else and he tripped. He almost vomited when he saw that what he had tripped over was the corpse of his elder brother, eyes wide open and staring emptily at nothing, with dribbles of blood at his nose and mouth which were already close to dry._

"_N-No…" Italy muttered. "No, this-this can't be happening…"_

_The ground under his hands was smooth with a feeling as though it was polished glass, and he looked down to see that he was lying on top of a mirror. He flipped his body over to see that he was… was…_

_His face and clothes were drenched in blood which was also caked in his hair and eyebrows. It was even on his lips, the metallic taste was strong on his teeth, and without looking at the rest of his body he could tell that none of it was his. And there was a third eye, vertical, sitting on his forehead above his nose._

"_No… NO…"_

_He closed his eyes to block out the horrific image. He could barely even breathe._

"_NOO! NO, THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING! __**NOOOOOO!**__"_

"Italy!"

_Fingers reached out of the mirror and grasped his hand, and started to pull him down into the reflective glass. Italy tried to pull his arm back, but the mystery hands were too strong and soon he was up to his elbow in the mirror._

"Italy, wake up!"

_Italy couldn't remember a time when he had ever screamed as much as he had at that moment. By now he had been pulled in up to his armpit and-_

"ITALY!"

-and it changed.

Rather than blood, he was wrapped in warm, comfortable sheets, and the hands clasping his were reassuring and soothing rather than terrifying. He stopped screaming and writhing around and tried to catch his breath.

"It's okay," he said. "I-I'm fine, really."

"You just woke up screaming," Germany pointed out. "In what way is that 'alright'? You've never had this kind of reaction before, so what the hell kind of dream were you having?"

Italy dared to open his eyes, and he was relieved to see that Germany was neither dead nor wounded, or even covered in blood. He was fine – admittedly a little dishevelled – and lying in the bed next to him holding his hand. Italy gulped, suddenly nervous about admitting his dream to a person he had seemingly killed, especially one with such an intense gaze.

"It wasn't like the others I've been having lately," he confessed. "It wasn't a flashback to… to that night. Instead it was… I-I was holding a knife and then I… I don't know what happened, I just killed everybody! I was covered in blood and I killed you and Romano and Japan and England and America and Kid and Liz and Patty and everyone else and it was so terrible and I didn't know what was happening or what I was supposed to do and I-"

"Calm down!" Germany commanded. "It was just a dream. Nothing more."

Italy wanted to smile, but couldn't quite bring himself to.

"But it was so strange and scary," he said, "and after earlier today, when I tried to kill Japan, I don't know what I'm supposed to think. What if, deep down inside, I really do want to kill all my friends?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Germany. "While it may be true that every person – even you – has a dark side, and I do not wish to try to deny this fact, I find it highly unlikely that it would show itself through something as silly as a dream. Do you wish to kill me right now?"

"Wha?! No!"

"Then stop worrying so much. If I were to take all of my dreams literally, I would certainly not be the person I am during the daytime."

"Why?" asked Italy, fear replaced with curiosity. "What do you dream about?"

Germany blushed, but it was only brief, and he sighed in exasperation. Or maybe embarrassment. It was difficult to tell.

"It's almost every night," he said, "and it's always the same dream. I'm small, little more than a child, and I'm chasing after somebody else who is slightly smaller than I am: a girl. A little girl in a green dress who looks remarkably like you. She's screaming, but it's only because she's frightened of me because she doesn't know me that well and I want her to know that I don't mean her any harm because I… I love her and I want to keep her safe. It always ends just before I reach her, and sometimes I wake up with tears in my eyes and I don't understand why."

It was Italy's turn to squeeze Germany's hand now.

"I'm not sure I understand it," the larger man added, "but it's just a dream. Nothing more. I'm sure that if I had some kind of past life, _mein bruder _would have told me about it long ago, because I certainly don't remember any small girl in green at any point in my life, much less one who resembles you."

"What if you did have a past life, though?" asked Italy. "One that Prussia doesn't know about? He wouldn't be able to tell you about it then. I mean, we all go through different stages, don't we? Like how America started out as a colony and Turkey used to be the Ottoman Empire and Russia was the Soviet Union and the Tatar Yoke. Even Romano and I started out as little city-states before we were united and became one big country. What if you were like that and you just lost your memory and these dreams are all that's left?"

Germany hesitated in his reply, his expression showing that he was being especially thoughtful at the moment.

"Well," he said slowly, "_bruder_ did tell me that he found me on a battlefield, and the first thing I remember is waking up in his house. I must have been in my early teens at that point, if not a little younger. Everything before is a static blur, like a television with no reception. I try not to think about it much because it gives me a headache."

Italy gave his hand another comforting squeeze, then sat up and got out of the bed.

"Where are you going?" Germany half asked, half demanded as he grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him back.

"To get myself a glass of water," said Italy. "That's all. I won't do anything stupid, I promise."

The two shared eye contact for a few moments as Germany tried to figure out whether or not his friend was being honest, and eventually let go of his wrist and nodded to the door.

"_Grazie_," said Italy. "I'll be right back. Honest."

* * *

Lightning struck the ground so close to the house that it made the window shudder in its frames and the shock caused Italy to jump nearly a foot in the air and spill his water into the sink, so he refilled it and then hungrily gulped it down before he could lose it again.

'That's better,' he thought. 'Why is it my mouth feels like a bird's nest when I'm thirsty?'

_GAAAAAAAOOOOOOOWWWWwwww…_

"Stomach, _ssh!_" he whispered. "Ve~ I guess I'm a little hungrier than I thought I was."

He reached for the nearby fruit bowl, hoping to take an apple, but when he looked he couldn't find one. He looked under the bananas and behind the oranges (and one rather confusing and out of place coconut) but there weren't any apples in sight.

"Is this what you were looking for?"

Something hit him on the head and he caught it as it bounced off and fell: it was an apple with a smiley face carved into the skin.

"Why…" he muttered.

"You've been looking depressed for far too long," England told him, "and it's beginning to get on my nerves. You have a viable reason to be upset, but you could at least _try_ to be subtle about it."

"_Mi dispiace_," said Italy. "I don't mean to burden everyone."

"Yes, I know," England said bitterly as he filled a cup up at the sink. "Anyway, is there some reason you haven't gone to sleep yet?"

"I-I did," Italy replied. "I had a really scary nightmare and I woke up thirsty, but I don't want to tell you what I dreamt about because I'm afraid you're going to lock me up again."

"In hindsight," said England between sips, "that may have been a rather questionable idea."

"No, it's okay," Italy said. "You didn't know."

While the elder nation was still drinking, there was another deafening _CRACK_ and he almost choked. Italy only jumped briefly and started chewing on his apple.

"Bollocks," England swore when he saw the mess he had made, and started to clean it up.

"You okay?" asked Italy.

"I just choked on my own drink," England replied sarcastically, "do you think I'm okay? Just what the hell is your problem, Italy?"

"I'm sorry! Please don't be angry!"

England sighed and finished off his drink.

"No, I'm sorry," he said, and sounded sincere this time. "I'm just annoyed because Russia and China won't shut up. You try sleeping near a room where one person is nyctophobic and another is astraphobic."

"Huh? What's-"

"China's scared of darkness and Russia's scared of lightning. Why their fears are so severe even though they're both grown men is completely beyond me."

"But I'm a grown man," Italy pointed out, "at least, I think I am, and I get scared almost all the time."

"Yes," said England, "but you're _you_."

After he had placed the cup next to the sink to be washed in the morning, he noticed that Italy had paused in the not-so-voracious devouring of his apple.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Well, I…" Italy said, quiet and nervous. "Right now, I'm scared that I'm going to lose all my friends and everyone I know. That's why I'm down here, I-I had a horrible nightmare where I killed everyone. Germany was the last to go before I woke up, and I stabbed him right in the chest and when he fell down he was bleeding lots and I was so scared and I-"

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

The half-eaten apple fell from Italy's fingers.

"Don't try to bluff me," said England. "I've seen the way you look at him. You ogle him like a lovesick schoolgirl when a pop star walks into the room, one who has a particularly nice arse. No, more than that: like someone whose husband has just returned from a war. It's on your face every second you're around him. It was interesting to observe at first, but after nine months of the same old rubbish day in and day out between you two, I must say that it's become quite boring."

"But…"

Italy sank to his knees.

"How?" he asked. "I tried so hard to keep it hidden! How could you know? How did you figure it out? Am I really so transparent that I…"

"It's difficult to figure out what's going on in your head since your expression is almost permanently vacant," England told him, "I'll admit, it was quite a challenge, but judging by your reaction, I'm guessing that I hit the nail on the head."

"Well, it's just…"

Italy stood up, trying to regain his composure.

"It's nothing," he said. "Just... I doubt he feels the same way. I mean, look at me: who'd fall in love with somebody like me?"

England looked him up and down, from the bandaged feet to the unkempt auburn bedhead complete with uncontrolled curl, the too-big clothes and the wide, innocent golden brown eyes. He was definitely quite cute, but much in the same way that a cheerful puppy in a pink bow or confused little kitten riding on a robotic vacuum cleaner is cute, not exactly "guy" cute. He wasn't the sort of person who could attract hordes of screaming fangirls.

"It would take some courage," he stated. "Wait, didn't you have some kind of lover in the past? Holy Ro-"

"Holy Roman Empire," Italy said before he could finish, "and _si_, I won't say I didn't love him, but I was just a _bambino_ at the time and so was he. In any case, he left to fight a war and I never saw him again. I lost him before I got the chance to really get to know him!"

"And you should be glad of that," said England as he turned to leave.

Italy stared at him in confusion.

"If you take the time to get to know somebody," England said bitterly, "if you allow yourself to form a deep connection with them and get as close to them as you possibly can, it only hurts all the more when they tear themselves away from you and throw it all back in your face."

It took a moment for Italy to realise who he was talking about.

"You mean America, don't you?" he asked as England was halfway through the door. "But you two have been getting closer again, haven't you? Big Brother France said a couple of weeks ago that you have a crush on him-"

"Don't you listen to a single thing that froggy wanker says!" England shouted suddenly, the redness of his face betraying his true feelings. "That bastard may talk all that country-of-love bollocks, but trust me when I say that he doesn't know the first thing about real romance! And neither does that stupid Yank! If he did, don't you think he would have mentioned something already?!"

"So… that's a yes?"

"Ugh, FORGET IT!"

The slamming of the door coincided with another clap of thunder, doubling the noise and almost causing Italy to dive under the table.

Well, that was… interesting. So it turned out that not only was Italy in love with Germany, but England seemed to be harbouring feelings for America that were tainted by his past relationship with France.

Perhaps. It was late, Italy was tired, and all this thinking was wearing him out.

'Even if Germany does feel the same way about me,' he thought as he made his way back to the bedroom, 'he's not the kind of person to go for sappy declarations of emotion. He probably wouldn't even know how.'

Everything was silent when he arrived back at the bedroom, and he made sure to close the door as quietly as possible. As he approached the bed, he realised that Germany had fallen asleep waiting for him.

'He looks so sweet,' he thought. 'Almost like a child. Almost like…'

"_Italy, come with me and become the Roman Empire again!"_

No. That was in the past.

He carefully climbed back under the covers and nestled into Germany's body, delighting in the warmth and comfort that was brought about by the mere presence of the man he loved.

* * *

"Stupid brother."

He kicked a tree as hard as he could, imagining with all his might that it was somebody's face.

"Stupid Kid."

He snatched a stick from the ground and started to whack the tree's trunk with every ounce of strength until it shattered into nothing. His only regret was that he couldn't be hitting his 'big brother'.

"Stupid Grim Reaper!"

Italy furiously punched and pounded the bark, ignoring how it hardly splintered at all and how his attacks caused more harm to his still-bandaged fists than it did to the tree. He head-butted it with all his might and stumbled back, almost out cold, then slammed rapid-fire punches into the tree trunk with a growl which burned his throat.

When he had worn himself out, he fell to his knees and fell forward until his forehead hit the tree with a sigh.

"Why do all these things keep happening to me?" he muttered. "Kid… I HATE YOU!"

He jumped up and kept attacking the tree, punching and kicking and scratching and head-butting with everything he had, until he heard something approaching from behind and swung to attack _that_-

-only to find his fist in the grip of a hand far stronger than his.

"Italy, get a grip!"

"Only if you release yours, you're hurting my hand!"

Once his hand was released, his massaged it and flexed his fingers to make sure they were still in working order.

"Italy, you do not know enough to form a valid opinion," Germany told him. "You do not know what is happening in Death City, so it is very likely that it was out of Kid's control. Do not blame him and _definitely_ do not take it out on that tree."

"But he's always been there for me ever since we met!" Italy pointed out. "Why would… I mean, I… I don't… _dannazione all'inferno!_"

Luckily Germany spun him around in time for him to punch the tree rather than him. Italy winced and shook his hand, hissing in pain.

"If you must attack a tree," said Germany (who had by now accepted what was happening) "then attack _that_ one. It's diseased, dead and the kindest thing would be to turn it into firewood."

Italy looked it over. The bark was a dull greyish-brown, there were no leaves on any of the branches and the whole thing looked empty and lifeless.

"Can I…" he said hesitantly, "can I use you?"

"_Ja_, I see no reason not to."

After a fast flash of deep orange, Italy was holding the familiar length of flawlessly polished metal and had to resist the urge to touch the blade because he knew he would likely cut himself.

It would be a crime to use such a beautiful weapon for something as crude as the cutting down of a tree. He tightened his grip and thrust it forward, halting it mere centimetres from the bark, then pulled it back and twirled it above his head, his feet carrying him in a spin over the grass, then swung it down with his left arm as though slashing at some invisible enemy.

'I wish I knew what I was doing,' he said internally.

He thought back to all the times he had done something similar to this, only the pole he had held usually bore a rectangle of plain white fabric bound to one end, and he was waving it around wildly and screaming for his life rather than trying to use it for combat. It was something he had grown more then used to in all the time he'd been alive.

When he swung the spear around again, it collided with something short but metallic.

"Just what do you think you're doing out here?" asked the person holding it. "After the events of yesterday, I expected you to be resting."

"I'm angry, okay?" Italy replied. "And I'm trying to get it out without hurting people!"

"Why are you angry?" asked England as he effortlessly blocked the shorter man's attacks. "I know you, Italy. You're not the type of person who just gets unnecessarily angry, that duty's always fallen to Romano. Now come on. Tell me."

Italy lowered the spear.

"He didn't pick up," he said.

"What?" England asked.

"Earlier today," Italy explained, "after we woke up, Germany and I tried to call Kid to ask him about something that could have caused me to attack Japan. I actually started wondering if it might have been the same thing that made Romano… made him hurt me the way he did. But he didn't pick up the phone. We tried three times and it always went through to the answerphone message. I don't understand why, he's always been there for me ever since we met and- and- _odio così tanto!_"

He seemed to have forgotten the fact that he didn't want to hurt anyone and started swinging the spear at England, who was thankfully holding America (in his weapon form, of course) and was able to shield himself from the strikes.

"Try to calm down," he said. "You'll never be able to fight effectively if your head is full of anger. If all you wish to do is release your anger, then sooner or later you're going to make a very dangerous mistake and you'll end up doing yourself far more damage than good."

"What would you know?"

"In case you forgot, I've had far more experience fighting than you have. Don't you remember that sometimes I was the one you were running away from?"

"I… I guess, but… wait, why are you even out here?"

"America thought it would be a good idea to try practising fighting," England explained, "and I considered that if he's going to be a weapon, we might as well make the most of it. Besides which, you look as though you could use a sparring partner, or at least somebody who could give you a few tips."

Italy searched his faint smile for signs of insincerity, but couldn't find any, which was either because England was being completely serious in his suggestion or because when it came to reading other people's expressions, Italy always received the lowest of all grades.

"O-okay," he said nervously. "Germany, how about you?"

"It sounds to me as though it would be a reasonable idea," said Germany. "So long as England knows what he's doing."

As a small trickle of sweat broke out on his forehead, Italy nodded at England, who leapt at him, bayonet at the ready for his attack.

* * *

They were watched.

"Italy looks better today, da?"

"_Oui_, but it is plain to see that he is not himself."

"Better than yesterday-aru."

"_Hai_, which is better than nothing."

"And look at the guy go! Nimble little _kämpfer_, isn't he?"

They watched as Italy kicked England's leg and the blonde slipped on the wet ground and fell over, but swung his arm around and knocked Italy's feet out from under him. Both of them were quickly back on their feet and resumed their fighting.

"The wet ground isn't helping, is it?" Prussia commented. "That mud must be freezing."

"There is colder," said Russia. "Trust me."

England thrust the bayonet at Italy, who dodged and slammed him in the back with his spear's handle. Thankfully, the wet ground worked to the blonde's advantaged and he slid rather than tumbled, but when he tried to kick backwards, Italy blocked the foot with his spear and kicked him over. England rolled out of the way of the spearhead that was thrust at him and jumped back onto his feet.

"They are _sparring_, aren't they?" asked China nervously. "They seem too ferocious-aru."

"I have battled with _Angleterre _in the past," said France. "Right now, he is barely even trying."

Suddenly, the two men paused in their battling. Italy stood still with his chest heaving and aiming the spear as England, who had barely broken a sweat, pointed at his feet and said something. Italy's feet then shuffled, but he slipped and fell face first into the mud. England helped him stand and the shorter man took the stance he had been attempting before, with his feet around a shoulder's width apart. He nodded as England said something else, muffled by distance, and then the battle resumed.

"Can anyone hear what they are saying?" asked Russia, and his question was met with a barrage of 'no's or variations thereof.

"Don't you think it's kind of a weird mix?" said Prussia. "England vs. Italy? They're not what I'd call a perfect match."

"You would be surprised, Prussia-san," said Japan as he watched the battle unfold. "Decades upon decades of fighting and warfare have hardened England-san to the point where you could call him some sort of super-soldier. Remember that his is the place that has not been invaded for almost a thousand years, and it was less than two centuries ago that he was a mighty empire which covered a third of the face of the globe. And now his is the home of the SAS. Plus he has survived some rather insane monarchs in his lifetime – he once told me that it took more convincing than he had ever needed before for Bloody Mary to decide not to execute him."

Out in the wet, England had his opponent on the ground again, but Italy scooped up a handful of mud and threw it in the tea-drinker's smirking face. He then sprang to his feet and kicked England to the floor, sending the bayonet flying out of his hand, but rather than calling an end to the fight, he tossed his spear aside and they kept at it with their bare hands.

"However," Japan continued undaunted, "at the opposing end of the scale, Italy-san has spent many of his days running for his life. I have seen him many times when he was trying to escape from training, and I doubt that even the fastest Olympian runners could hope to compare to him. Just think: he was able to walk from this house to where Romano is imprisoned. To put it in more simple terms: what England lacks in speed, he makes up for in strength, and what Italy lacks in strength, he more than compensates for when it comes to speed."

While silence reigned inside the house, the fight outside was beginning to wind down. With the loss of their weapons (who were standing to one side watching with apparent fascination) England and Italy were covering each other in far more mud than bruises, along with the occasional kick or blade of grass. They had definitely slowed down since the beginning of the fight and were getting tired, but neither had stopped smiling – if anything, they were practically grinning.

It was plain to see that they were _enjoying_ this.

China started sniggering.

"What is funny, China?" asked Russia.

"Not much," China replied. "I just don't think I've ever heard Japan talk so much at one time-"

He suddenly stopped talking and leaned forward, squinting at the scenery beyond the window as if he was straining his eyes trying to see something which was otherwise too far away.

"China, what're you looking at?" asked Prussia, who followed his line of sight and found nothing. "What, the trees?"

The others observed as Germany and America finally pulled Italy and England apart – England was smiling and Italy was laughing, and both were smothered in a thick layer of mud as though auditioning for the Black and White Minstrel Show. China, however, stepped outside and continued staring into the trees.

"Would you like to know what you are?" England said to his sparring partner.

Italy innocently shook his head.

"You," said England, "believe it or not, are a worthy opponent."

He grasped Italy's hand with a wet squelch and shook it as the younger man giggled happily, his frustration now relieved.

"Italy, you look like you went swimming in mud," Germany commented. "I'm not letting you touch anything in my house until you've been thoroughly washed, and the same goes for you as well, England."

"Well, it's not my fault that my weather followed me here!" England objected angrily.

"Not to worry, Iggy, I'll hose ya down!" America picked up the now-struggling man and started searching the outside of the house for a hose while Germany escorted Italy inside.

"Ve~ China?" said Italy before they entered. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," said China. "Right there-aru... right where I'm looking, there's… it feels like some kind of monster. A mass of rancid _qi_. Can't you feel it-aru?"

"_Nein_, what are you talking about?" asked Germany.

China didn't look at him, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on the woods that stood not far from Germany's house. He could swear that he felt something there, staring right back at him with eyes unseen…

"It's nothing," he said, turning away. "Never mind-aru."

He went back inside, but didn't dismiss his worries, although he hoped against hope that they wouldn't prove appropriate.

* * *

"Home."

"Unsafe."

"Parents."

"None."

"Fight."

"Defeat."

"Fear."

"Crying."

"Foreign."

"Untrustworthy."

"Tomato."

"Tasty."

"Potato."

"Bastard."

"Bed."

"Sleep."

"Family."

"Lost."

"Love."

"Pointless."

"Brother."

There was no reply. The psychologist looked up at his patient for the first time since he had entered.

"Brother," he repeated, pushing for an answer.

The inmate bowed his head in shame.

"Sorry," he said quietly, and he hugged his knees as though trying to make himself as small as possible. It was clear that no more progress was going to be made today, so the psychologist stood up.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Vargas," he said. "I will be sure to check in with you at some point in the near future."

"Don't bother," Romano spat bitterly. "I don't want some bastard telling me what's going on in my own head like I don't even know. Piss off already."

Without another word or even a scribble on his clipboard (he was most likely saving it for when he was out of sight) the psychologist left the cell and his escorting guards closed and locked the door behind them.

Romano wasn't bothering to count the days he spent in this place. The very second he was released from hospital, he was sent straight here without even getting a trial. The evidence was overwhelming, they said, and with the mental state of his younger brother, getting a statement from him would have been next to impossible. Stupid bastards. Who the hell did they think they were?

They were Italians, and they were doing their job, said the one part of his mind which knew what it was doing.

What Romano wanted, more than anything else, was to be able to see his brother without getting the urge to pulverise his body and strangle what remained until all that was left was a bloody, choking pulp of a person. Or maybe _he_ was the one that needed pulverising. Maybe then he wouldn't get the urge to hurt him.

In any case, Veneziano would never forgive him. Not after what he had done.

With a sigh of irritation, Romano rolled onto his side and faced away from the wall, because the scratching noises of the rats within were beginning to get on his nerves.

He didn't even understand what had happened. One moment he was dead drunk and just wanted to get home, but then… then he was gripped by an uncontrollable urge to hurt the nearest person in the most powerful way he could conceive. When he tried to think back, all he saw was a blur of anger and sweat and so much _screaming_, more chaotic than the terrors which plagued his mind at night, but he knew for a fact that his little brother would be experiencing so much worse and it was ALL HIS FAULT.

And then the next morning it had happened again, and he had almost taken his little brother's life…

"Veneziano," he muttered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Now if only he could say that to his little brother's face and convince him that it was genuine without trying to tear him apart.

'I hate this,' he thought. 'He's probably with the potato bastard, that's if he's not sucking up to the reaper brat. How the fucking hell did he walk here when the doctors said his leg was broken?'

Something whacked on his cell window and he jumped right off the bed.

"The fuck…?" he muttered.

A face was pressed right up against the industrial strength frosted glass. It was human, but only in the vaguest sense of the word. The eyes were nightmarishly mismatched – one the size of a marble, the other at least as large as a teacup. Both were a sickly green colour, as if the colour of vomit. Its nose was red as blood, its lips were deep purple and pulled into a terrifying razor-toothed grin, and the rest of its face was a strangely disturbing shade of white.

Romano sat on the ground, frozen in horror, as the monstrous creature tapped on the window with a grey hand which was shiny, yet dull. It then drew a small circle, knocked lightly on the centre, and a disc of glass fell down into Romano's cell and he shuffled backwards in case it broke.

When he looked back up, the creature happily waved at him.

Then it vanished from sight.

The confused and frightened Italian leapt up quick as a whip and dived to the window, peering out at the creature's retreating back and noticing how much it looked like a… what the hell?

"Hey!" he shouted. "Hey, guard guy! There's some kinda monster out there!"

He didn't get an answer.

"It looks like a…" he continued regardless, "…well, some kind of clown."

Still, nothing.

"Hey, listen to me!" he yelled. "That thing's probably gonna hurt somebody! I don't know what it is, but it's like a monster! You gotta kill it before it gets to a residential area or some shit like that!"

Couldn't anyone hear him?

"Is there anybody there?"

No reply.

"SOMEBODY PLEASE, LISTEN TO ME!"

* * *

**The plot thickens…**

**I know a lot of you will be happy to see that Italy's improving, ever so slightly, and some of the more Soul Eater-savvy of you may be beginning to realise just exactly what's going on here. And I know even more of you will be glad to know how Romano's feeling about this whole mess. I did write a bit in chapter 8 where he breaks down after Italy's gone, but it seemed a bit out of place, so I removed it. Sorry!**

**I've been considering writing an FMA fanfic for quite some time now, but I'm not sure whether it should be a crossover with anything. I've also been thinking a lot about Storm Hawks lately, and I'm thinking of writing a fic about that, but I'm still figuring some things out at the moment. I haven't been writing as much because exams are next week and I'm a bit too busy freaking out about whether or not I'll pass, because if not then I might not get into year 12 and... excuse me:**

_**AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH!**_

**That's better.**

**If you review, that would be nice.**


End file.
